


Through Ourselves And Back Again

by commoncomitatus



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Family, Gen, Loss, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-02 14:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 46,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10946097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commoncomitatus/pseuds/commoncomitatus
Summary: Post-"Where Bluebirds Fly". Wherein Zelena struggles to cope with the loss of her magic and Regina struggles to balance her sister's weakness with her own.





	1. Chapter 1

***

“Drink this.”

The brew smells like death, bitter and needlessly sharp, but Zelena does as she’s told because… well, because she feels rather the same way herself. Not just bitter; that would be normal enough. It’s the ‘like death’ part that’s new, the part that’s suddenly jagged and unfamiliar, the part where she breathes in and finds herself choking.

It’s a strange concoction, like no potion or beverage she’s ever known, but it smells exactly like her insides feel: _wrong_.

Not that that’s any reason not to drink it, really. After all, what harm could this silly little drink do that she hasn’t already done to herself? She’s already been stripped of the only thing that ever mattered, the only part of her that was ever worth anything. What more could she possibly lose?

She takes a long, effortful swallow, holds the stuff down by pure force of will, and shudders.

“Ugh.”

Regina watches her choke it down. She’s got a sad smile on her face, sympathy coloured with just the faintest hint of amusement. _Typical_ , Zelena thinks. _Delighting in my bloody misery_.

“It’s good for you,” Regina says, chiding, like she’s talking to Henry.

Zelena thinks about telling her where she can stick her ‘good for you’, but she doesn’t have the strength for an argument. She doesn’t have the strength for much of anything at all, frankly, and here she is sat opposite the one person in all the realms she’d never want to see her like this, the one person in all the realms she just wants to hide from. Regina might call it a ‘noble sacrifice’, the loss of her magic, but Zelena doesn’t feel noble at all. She feels weak and worthless, and like she’s going to be sick.

“It’s revolting.” She forces down another miserable mouthful, if only to get Regina to stop staring at her like that. “What the bloody hell is it?”

Regina’s smile softens just a little. The amusement fades just a little, but sadly the scrutiny remains. “Ginger tea,” she says. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it.”

“I drink _proper_ tea,” Zelena mutters. “The kind that’s made of _tea_.”

“Well, this is made of ginger,” Regina says. She’s unfazed by the rudeness, it seems, and still so unbearably soft. “It’ll help with the nausea.”

“I never said I was…” Oh, but why even pretend? Regina’s been calling her bluff for years; why would she stop now? “How did you know?”

Regina doesn’t answer. She just reaches across the table, finds Zelena’s hand, the one not holding the stupid not-tea teacup, and _oh_ , the contact sets her skin on fire, sends little mnemonic sparks rippling through her veins, the echo of magic so potent and so powerful that for a moment she almost passes out. It’s like her blood and her bones remember what they lost, even as the rest of her is starving for it, and that, _this_ , the press of skin on skin, the hum of Regina’s magic against her empty, shaking fingers… that does more to settle her stomach than all the so-called ‘tea’ in the world.

“Drink,” Regina says again, and like a puppet in her thrall Zelena does.

She breathes as steadily as she can, tries not to think about the effort it takes, how hard it suddenly is to do everything. She imagines the hot bitter brew sliding down her throat, settling in her stomach, tries to make the act of swallowing easier than it is. It doesn’t work, though. Everything hurts, and it’s all so much more painful than it was yesterday. Drinking, thinking, moving, breathing, it’s all so bloody difficult, and she doesn’t know why. It’s just drinking, just breathing, just staying alive. Aren’t these the sorts of things people just _do_?

She doesn’t understand. There’s no magic in a cup of bloody tea. There’s no gift required to make her body work, no power involved in breathing or digestion or knowing when she’s thirsty or breathless. Even her infant daughter can recognise those basic needs in herself; even a newborn baby knows when it’s hungry or when it’s feeling sick. Even little Robin knows how her body works without needing to concentrate on every little thing.

So why can’t Zelena? Why, all of a sudden, is swallowing a cup of godawful fake tea the hardest task in the world? Why does her body feel like it belongs to someone else, like her very existence is some great ancient mystery, centuries and light-years beyond her comprehension? None of these things ever needed magic before, so what the hell is wrong with her?

“It’ll pass,” Regina says, and her hand is so heavy, so painfully heavy, like a lead weight pressing down on Zelena’s knuckles. Zelena tries to shake it off, but her hands won’t work either. “I promise.”

 _How do you know,_ Zelena thinks. _When was the last time you bled yourself dry and lived to tell the tale?_

She doesn’t say it. She squeezes her eyes shut, swallows until her throat is razed, tries to figure out whether it’s easier when her mouth isn’t full of the world’s most un-tea-like tea.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me this is what it means to be a bloody hero.”

“I wouldn’t waste my breath,” Regina says. “We both know it’s not what you want to hear.”

Zelena opens her eyes, tries to focus on Regina’s face. “No,” she tries to say. “It’s not.”

It comes out strangled, though, and barely passes for speech at all. Her voice is high, almost inaudible; it’s like she’s trying to speak around a fist squeezing her throat. Her head is spinning, and she tries to clear her throat, to try again, but nothing happens.

Regina’s eyes widen at the sight of her. Zelena is sure she can hear her pulse quickening.

“Breathe,” she says, with some urgency. “Breathe, Zelena.”

 _I can’t_. She’s panicking, she realises. Her whole body feels like it’s seizing. _Bloody hell, I can’t breathe._

She hears her voice choking on Regina’s name, feels her throat start to close up, the ceiling and the walls bearing down on her from all directions, and for a strange, dizzy moment she can’t remember where she is; everything is so bright, so dazzling, but why isn’t there any space, why can’t she _breathe_?

The teacup trembles in her hand, delicate porcelain, white and bright like everything else in this ridiculous room. She jerks, shudders, and scalding liquid splashes over the side and onto her hand.

The pain is dim, distant, a strange alien sensation that her nerves don’t fully recognise. It’s like it’s all happening to someone else, like she isn’t really a part of anything. Her knuckles are cracked and dry; they soak up the liquid, the _tea_ , that bitter-tasting stuff that’s supposed to make her feel less sick, not more, the revolting concoction that Regina insists is ‘good for her’. She knows it must be burning her skin, but she can’t feel anything at all.

“It’s okay,” Regina says, and Zelena lets out a strangled giggle because _‘okay’_ is the last word she’d apply to this situation. “It’s all right.”

Zelena shakes her head. _No it’s not,_ she wants to say. _It’s impossible, it’s horrible, it’s the worst thing I’ve ever felt in my whole life._

Instead she says, “This is ridiculous.”

Regina covers her hand, the one that’s soaked and scalded with wasted tea. There’s a hum on the air, a soft purple glow as the blistering liquid hisses and evaporates on the skin, and Zelena wants to cry because it’s _there_ , the magic is so _close_ , it’s _touching her_ but it’s still so completely out of reach.

“Remember,” Regina says, gentle but chiding, “you can’t heal yourself any more.”

Zelena shakes her head. “I don’t need healing,” she says, and for once it’s not all blustery bravado, for once in her life it’s the truth. “I barely even felt it.”

The magic dissipates, and then suddenly there’s only Regina, her fingertips tentative and tender and utterly terrifying. “Zelena…”

“It’s true.” Her breath stutters in her chest, but at least it’s there, at least she has _something_ inside her now. “I don’t really feel much of anything right now.”

She wants to be honest, to split her ribs apart and show Regina the emptiness where her lungs used to be, to pull her body to pieces and let Regina figure out why it’s not working the way it should be. She wants to be open, literally and figuratively and everything in between, but she doesn’t know how.

She never learned, did she? No-one ever taught her how to be truthful or trusting, what it meant to live in a place where she was safe. When she was a little girl all she knew how to do was hide, and when she got older all she knew was hate. There was no space between those things for anything like this.

Besides, how could she even begin to describe all the things she is and is not feeling? There are no words to explain the emptiness inside of her, the black hole where her magic should be, where it’s always been, her whole life. It’s like someone reached inside and pulled out all her organs, her bones and her blood, all the things that held her body together, that made it work. It’s worse than losing a hand or a leg or an eye; at least she’d still have the other one, at least she’d still have something. But magic is unique, the only organ of its kind, and without it Zelena feels like her entire being is twisted and wrong.

It’s not like it was with that blasted cuff. Locked up in a ncie padded cell, a pregnant captive to the whims of her vindictive little sister and that forest-smelling boyfriend of hers. At least back then her magic was still a part of her. Suppressed and silenced, sure, but still there, still _hers_. She could feel it vibrating inside of her, a beehive buzzing beneath the skin, and she knew that it was only a matter of time before it broke free. They could shackle her, silence her, smother her; they could do everything in their power to drive the magic down, but not even Queen Regina could reach inside her guts and pull it out.

She wonders what they would have said back then, Regina and Robin and all the rest of them, if they learned that barely a year later she would turn around and do the job herself.

Regina squeezes her hand. The pressure is dull, like they’re both wearing a pair of thick gloves. “It will get easier,” she says again.

Another hollow promise, Zelena thinks, to go with all the rest. She closes her eyes, tries her best to breathe through the noise and the void.

“It’s not working,” she says. “Your so-called tea.”

Regina snorts. “It’s not ‘so-called tea’,” she mutters. “It’s just tea.”

The levity is forced, of course, and it falls woefully flat. “Whatever it is,” Zelena says, “it’s not working.”

For just a moment, it looks like Regina wants to blame her for that. _‘You’re not trying hard enough,’_ or _‘well, if you’d stop complaining for five seconds and actually drink the stuff…’_. It comes so naturally to them, the spite and the snark, the way they always undercut and undermine each other; it’s no wonder this empathy business is such a struggle, for Regina as much as herself.

Neither one of them is particularly comfortable in the land of empathy. Their strengths are blame and pointed fingers, and there’s enough of both those things to fill this room a dozen times over. It’s a credit, if not really a comfort, that Regina at least has the strength to hold her tongue.

“I’m sorry,” she says at last, biting down on each word. “If you hate it that much, I can get you something else.”

Zelena shakes her head. She wasn’t particularly thirsty before the tea abomination; she’s sure as hell not thirsty now.

“What I need,” she says, “you’re not likely to find in your kitchen.”

“You’d be surprised,” Regina says, but once again the feint at levity falls flat. “Believe it or not, Zelena, I do know what you’re going through.” She sucks in a breath, holds it for a long moment, then lets it out very carefully, like she’s bracing herself to face a troubling memory. “I’ve been without my magic before too, you know.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“ _No_.” Her voice breaks. She sounds nearly as feverish as she feels. “You’ve been without your _powers_ before. It’s not the same thing.”

“Oh?” The curve of Regina’s eyebrow is a blow. “Enlighten me, then.”

It takes a great deal of effort for Zelena to stop shaking, to summon enough control over her body to get the words out, to shape them inside her head and then draw them out through her mouth.

She’s never had such a difficult time just speaking before; usually the effort lies in shutting her up. She’s never had to stumble or scrounge for words like this; they’ve always just come to her, as sharp and deadly as conjured blades, jagged where she wants them to scar and smooth where she wants them to rend. She hasn’t had very much luck with any other weapon, her magic notwithstanding, but sharp words were the one thing that never let her down.

Not so any more. Now, like the rest of her body, her voice fails her. She flounders and fumbles, drowning in a sea of confusion, and she cannot make her thoughts make sense. She hasn’t managed more than a sentence at a time since she lost her magic, and now she needs to talk thoroughly, to _explain_ , to pour out all this chaos inside of her, to shape this impossible madness into something coherent, something Regina might make sense of.

Slowly, awkward and clumsy and utterly unlike herself, she forces them out.

“I’ve been without my powers too,” she says. “When you put that bloody cuff on me, remember? I suffered through the world’s worst ten-minute pregnancy without my powers. I gave birth to my daughter without my powers. I got kidnapped without them, and then I got them back all by myself.” She swallows thickly. The queasy feeling in her stomach, the one the tea was supposed to soothe, intensifies. “I know how to live without power, Regina. And it is nothing like this.”

Regina lowers her eyebrow. It doesn’t make things easier. “So what’s the difference?” she asks.

Zelena hopes it’s an earnest question, wants to believe that it is, but how can she tell, really? She can’t, of course, can only answer it as if it were, because that’s all she has. She has to believe in something, even if it’s just someone else’s sincerity.

“It’s like…” But saying it is so difficult, and it hurts like nothing she’s ever known. “Being powerless, it’s like being blindfolded, like being handcuffed or locked up in that blasted cell. It’s not you, it’s them. The idiots trying to shackle you. And when you get free — and you _will_ get free — oh, you’ll make them pay.” It’s perhaps a little more truthful than she intended, a vivid reflection of her time in that cell, but at least it gets Regina’s attention. “That’s being without power.”

Regina nods. “And being without magic?”

Zelena shudders. Her whole body is already telling that story, broadcasting it loud and clear, a deafening scream that tears through every nerve, every synapse, every torn-up part of her.

“Being without magic,” she says, and swallows hard. “That’s something else. It’s not some silly cuff you can cut off when the moment’s right, a chain holding you down or a collar to keep you docile. It’s not a blindfold, Regina, it’s a bloody amputation.”

Regina’s breath catches audibly in her throat. For the first time, she seems to realise what her sister did, what that ‘noble sacrifice’ really meant. She might as well have ripped out her own eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she manages at last, and she sounds just as hoarse as Zelena. “I’m sorry it came to that.”

“So am I,” Zelena says. “I don’t even recognise my own body any more.”

Regina leans across the table again, and this time when she takes Zelena’s hand she grips it as tightly as she can. “I understand.”

 _No,_ Zelena thinks. _You really, really don’t._

*

A little later, Regina says, “I think you should stay here tonight.”

Zelena tries to laugh, but she can’t. Her throat is razed raw, her voice all but gone. She’s feeling worse than she was before, tossed like a boat on a writhing ocean, and she wishes she could stop her heart, her lungs, her brain as easily as she stemmed the flow of magic through her veins.

It’s a visceral, violent thing, this awful feeling inside her. It carves a path straight through her bones, and refuses to be silenced by anything. She can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t even think without the worst kind of effort. Like the pain of severed nerves, the scream of a hacked-off limb, it goes on and on and will not be undone.

“Here?” she echoes. She’s trying to be wry, sarcastic, but it comes out as weak as a kitten. “In your kitchen?”

“Zelena.” Regina doesn’t sound any better. “Please don’t.”

“What’s the matter, sis?” It doesn’t work, trying to play it cool. Neither one of them has the strength for it. “Lost your sense of humour?”

“Yes,” Regina says, without hesitation. “I lost it around the same time you lost your magic.”

“I didn’t _lose_ it,” Zelena says. It’s true; that’s a big part of what hurts. “I gave it up. Willingly. Like a bloody idiot. I did it by choice. I…” She shudders, shoulders heaving. “My god, I did it to myself.”

“I know.” Regina sighs, cups Zelena’s face with excruciating tenderness. Her skin is soft, and unbearably smooth; it makes Zelena want to rip off her own. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

“I’m used to it,” Zelena says. “I’ve been alone my whole life.”

Regina leans in, all the way in, replacing her hand with her mouth, a comforting kiss on the cheek that leaves Zelena feeling cauterised. It stings a little, like the flat of a blade pressing on an exposed nerve, like the sound of a muscle sliced clean through.

“Not any more,” Regina whispers.

Zelena doesn’t know why that makes her choke, but it does. She pulls away, trembling, and for the first time since it happened, since she cut herself open and pulled out her insides, she feels something almost physical, something more than the pain of being severed, something that feels almost like sensation, like contact, like Regina’s touch or her kiss — not the hum of her magic against the places where Zelena has none, but her skin, the sleekness, the oils and creams she wears, the shimmer of powder and perfume, the brutal physicality of it. She _feels_ , if only for a moment, and it’s like her body splits at its seams.

“It didn’t help,” she manages. “Your stupid bloody fake tea.”

 _I still feel awful,_ she means. _I could ruin your stupid marble table or your fancy carpets or this obscenely expensive house. If you let me stay here, I’ll ruin everything._

Regina, of course, only smiles. “Then we’ll find something better,” she says.

*

They don’t find anything better, and the awful feeling doesn’t go away.

None of it does. Not the nausea, not the emptiness, not the pain every time she breathes. Certainly not the way she doesn’t recognise her body; it lingers and takes hold, gripping her in places she only feels like phantom limbs.

She only feels tethered when Regina touches her, when her royal, perfect skin glides over the cracks in Zelena’s, when her magic gets to shine into her vacant, hollow veins. Regina doesn’t touch her the whole time, but she stays by her side and doesn’t complain.

Once, only once, she disappears. She guides Zelena into Henry’s old room, tells her to settle in, and then walks out again. Zelena knows from experience the restraint it must take for her to use the door and not her magic. It should make her feel loved and cared for, the way Regina takes her pain into account, the way she doesn’t flaunt her powers in front of her, but it doesn’t. Instead it makes her feel pathetic, like Regina’s worried she’ll shatter at the least little thing, like maybe she _will_. God, she feels like a bloody cripple.

And, well, perhaps that’s not so far from the truth. A part of her is gone, after all, ripped out and severed, and now her body has to learn how to function without it. Is that really so different from being blind, from losing her legs, her hands, her voice? She’s not sure she wants to know.

When Regina comes back, she’s got a serious look on her face. She’s carrying a bowl of ice cream, and though she tries to smile when she hands it over she’s not fooling either one of them. She’s upset, worried, and that makes Zelena want to throw herself out of the nearest window.

“Comfort food,” Regina says, pointing at the ice cream.

“Ugh.” It feels like the only thing she can say to adequately put across her feelings. “I think I’ll pass.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion.” She stops trying to smile, though, and her voice drops a full octave when she adds, “Belle agreed to look after Robin for the night.”

Zelena growls, both at the command and the revelation. “So the bookworm knows?” She hates how vulnerable it makes her feel, and how afraid. “I suppose that means Rumple does as well?”

“It couldn’t be helped,” Regina says, and sighs. “Look, I know there’s no love lost between you and Gold, but Robin will be safe there. Isn’t that the important thing?”

It is, of course. Zelena really hates that. “I’m not hungry,” she says instead.

“I know you’re not,” Regina says gently. “I know you’re feeling sick. But whether you like it or not, you need to eat. You have to. I don’t think magic bleeds the same way veins do, but whatever passes for blood in people like us, you lost a lot of it, and you need—”

“I lost _all_ of it,” Zelena snaps. Saying it almost makes her retch. “I lost _everything_.”

“Not everything.” It’s another stupid promise, but this one doesn’t feel quite as pointless as the others. “You’ve lost a big part of yourself, Zelena, but there are others. And believe me, you’ve still got the part that matters.”

“The part that hurts, you mean.”

“No.” Regina sighs. “I mean the part that cares.”

Zelena rolls her eyes, aching more than she’ll ever admit. “Is there a difference?”

“Maybe not today,” Regina concedes. There’s sorrow in her voice, in her eyes, in every part of her. “But tomorrow...”

 _Tomorrow_. Zelena runs the word over in her head, again and again until it loses its meaning. It seems so far away, like a distant star, impossible to ever reach.

“That’s not much comfort,” she says. “What good is ‘tomorrow’ today?”

Regina chuckles lightly, and pats her hand. “That’s what the ice cream is for.”

The ice cream doesn’t help at all, but Regina does. She watches Zelena so carefully, like she’s searching for signs of weakness, like eating is a battle and she’s the strategist. She knows when to push and when to pull back, when to whisper encouragement and when to be silent, when Zelena’s _‘I’m not hungry’_ comes from a place of stubbornness and when it comes from a place of discomfort. She knows everything, just like she always does.

Zelena eats very little, complaining and struggling all the while, but somehow Regina can effortlessly pierce the difference between _‘I don’t want to’_ and _‘I can’t’_. She navigates without blinking the murky waters of Zelena’s childishness, finds the little islands between, the places where she can’t quite hide the deeper misery.

“All right,” she says at long last, and Zelena marvels because it’s exactly the right moment, just as the sheer effort of trying is about to make her break down and cry, and how, _how_ does she know that? How does she always know everything? “All right, okay. That’s enough.”

Zelena pushes the bowl away, mostly-melted and all but untouched. She’s managed maybe two spoonfuls of the stuff, and that’s probably pushing it.

“Your culinary talents leave a lot to be desired,” she says, because it’s so much easier to blame Regina than herself.

Regina rolls her eyes, lips quirking wryly; she doesn’t seem to mind playing the scapegoat. “Henry never complained.”

The name makes Zelena flinch, and it’s a long moment before she realises why. She’s not exactly been an ideal aunt to the boy — their first encounter began with her hands at his throat, for pity’s sake — but it’s not the old worn-out guilt that strangles her now. It’s something different, and it makes her stomach seethe all over again.

“I’m not Henry,” she says, and _oh_ , she feels like an open vein. “I’m not a bloody child.”

Regina doesn’t reply, but Zelena can tell what she’s thinking anyway.

 _Yes you are,_ she doesn’t say. _Right now, at least, that’s exactly what you are._

*

She’s right, of course. In all the ways that matter, it’s true.

Clipped and useless, Zelena can’t do anything for herself. Regina has to make sure she eats and drinks, has to tell her what to do, right down to the simplest little things; hell, she even had to hold her upright as they climbed the bloody stairs. It’s like she’s lost more than just her magic, more than just whatever part of her was tethered to it. It’s like she’s lost her common sense too, the last little place where she could function like a normal human being. Heaven knows there wasn’t much there to begin with, but now that it’s gone she feels like she can’t tell one dimension from another. Up is down, left is right; she feels like the baby deer in that ridiculous story-book, learning to walk for the first time.

She wonders if it’ll be worse when — _if_ — the physical symptoms wear off. When she’s come back to herself a little, when her body is almost her own again, when her stomach and her lungs have settled and she almost, _almost_ feels like a person, when all that’s left is the other thing, the madness and the pain and the worthlessness that makes her want to die. Will it hurt less when all she feels is lost?

“One step at a time,” Regina tells her, and then goes and ruins it by saying, “Now lie down and try to get some sleep.”

“I don’t need you to tell me when I’m tired,” Zelena says. It comes out sharp, a double-edged blade held to both their throats at the same time. “What’s next? Step-by-step instructions on breathing?”

Regina doesn’t mention the fact that they’ve been through that already. She just sighs and says, with devastating steadiness, “If that’s what you need.”

“It’s not.” Her voice shakes, stealing away what little authority she might have had. “Bloody hell, can’t you just go away and leave me alone? Can’t you just…”

She trails off, choking, and hates, hates, _hates_.

She expects Regina to argue. She expects sighs and head-shakes, expects to hear her name twisted into an insult in that horrible way her sister has of hurting her with honesty. She expects the same thing that always happens when she’s abrasive and angry and stupid: more of the same in return. Hasn’t it always been that way between them, a game of escalating immaturity, of snide quips and threats, eye-rolls and sighs and shrugs thrown about like stones? Is it any wonder that she expects it all to continue, even now? Same story, different day, eh?

But that’s not what happens. Regina doesn’t shake her head or sigh or sling her usual insults, and she doesn’t say Zelena’s name at all.

“It’s all right,” she says instead, and _oh god no_ , that’s worse, it’s so much _worse_. “It’s all right to be angry. It’s all right to need space.”

“Don’t tell me what’s all right!” Zelena chokes. “Don’t tell me what—”

She wants to say _‘don’t tell me what to do’_ , but she can’t. It’s too many words and too far away from the truth.

She doesn’t want this, doesn’t want any of it. Regina and her compassion, her maternal instincts, the way she brought her _here_ , to the room her son used to sleep in, like she’s somehow forgotten all those times Zelena threatened to kill him and her and everyone else in this dead-end town, like none of that matters any more, like it’s suddenly okay now because she’s broken, because she’s a cripple, because she’s not a bloody person any more.

She doesn’t want it, can’t swallow it or stomach it. It makes her feel sick, so much worse than the emptiness churning inside of her, so much worse than the void in her veins, worse than all of it, everything. She hates it, she hates it, she doesn’t want it, doesn’t need it, _doesn’t want it_ , but…

…but oh, _oh_ , it’s all she has.

“Don’t,” she says again, and that’s all she has too, just one stupid, meaningless word.

It’s enough, though. Just as she did with the ice cream, picking out exactly the right moment to say _‘that’s enough’_ , just as she knew by some sixth sense when her sister couldn’t go on, Regina does the same thing now; she pierces the petulance and the misplaced spite, the impotent anger, and catches all the pain and the grief lurking beneath. She knows her, she knows this, and she knows, again, exactly what to say.

“All right then,” she says. The softness is devastating. A sister’s softness, maybe a mother’s too. Zelena wouldn’t know; she’s never felt either. “I won’t.”

She stands, graceful and steady and completely sure of herself. Zelena envies her, just as she’s always envied her, but somehow it feels different now, like the emotion has a different shape, like they’re both wearing different colours. She covets what Regina has, not just because she has it but because she _earned_ it, because she worked for it. Zelena has always prided herself on her dedication to getting what she wants, but oh, just look at the two of them now.

Regina presses a kiss to her forehead. The contact is brief; it barely counts as a kiss, really, but it scalds and sears, far worse than spilled tea, and for a delirious, idiotic moment Zelena is convinced it will melt her.

“I’ll be two doors away,” Regina tells her. “If you need anything at all, just call.”

Zelena squares her shoulders, summons all her strength. There’s not much, barely anything at all, but what little there is is _hers_ , and she clings to that like it’s the only thing keeping her alive.

“I won’t,” she says.

*

Left alone, the silence is deafening.

It’s strange, how sensitive she is to it all of a sudden. She’s been alone for so long, with no-one but her daughter to talk to; shouldn’t she be used to silence by now? Robin is the most beautiful, wonderful little creature in all the world, but she’s still a baby. She’s not even old enough to form a cohesive syllable, much less a full sentence. Talking to her is like talking to a wall, and for all her delusions in other corners of her life Zelena has never fooled herself into believing her little bundle of joy understands a single word she says.

Surely, then, the silence should be an old familiar friend by now. Surely she should be thankful for it, relieved in the way she feels sometimes when slipping off her heels or her gloves. Regina means well, but she talks and talks and _talks_ , and it has been so long since Zelena had to sit and listen to someone else talking for so many hours on end. It’s the one benefit of loneliness, of isolation and solitude: she doesn’t have to think all the time. All this chit-chat with her sister, as comforting as Regina thinks it is, has left Zelena feeling flayed. She’s saturated with it, a headache blooming behind her eyes, and it should be a comfort, the silence that sweeps in when she’s finally alone.

It’s not, though. If anything, it’s almost worse. The silence is endless, empty just like she is, and nothing at all like the blessed peace and quiet she’s used to.

She never realised how noisy her old life was, even in its quietest moments. The farmhouse is like a weary old woman, sensitive and awake to every little shift in the weather; the old rafters moan with the smallest gusts of wind, the shutters rattle against the windows at all hours of the day and night, and the wood creaks and complains when it rains. It would make a decent setting for a ghost story, she thinks sometimes, and that’s not counting Robin’s gurgles and whimpers, the soft little sounds that jolt Zelena out of her sleep at night. She has spent so long living like that, she never quite realised that it wasn’t truly silent at all.

Regina’s house is more solid than hers, though, and it doesn’t complain about the weather or anything else. It’s massive and well-built, and it keeps out the chill and the noise with devastating effect. Robin is away, probably keeping Belle awake instead, and Zelena is more alone here in her sister’s home than she ever was in her own, weakened and worthless, driven mad by something as small and simple as silence.

What a sad state of affairs, she thinks. What a hellish, horrible nightmare that Robin is safer with Belle than her own mother, that the useless bloody bookworm is a better protector than the woman who brought her into the world. What a waste she is, what a pathetic little thing, shivering and scared and stupid. How will she ever be able to take care of her daughter when she can’t even make it through one quiet night?

She chokes, feeling helpless and broken. She wants to scream, wants to _sob_ , but the tears won’t come and she’s not strong enough to force them.

Another addition to her list of failures, that. There’s so little she can do now, and it all comes with so much effort, so much _work_. It drains the life right of out her, even the easiest tasks. Eating a bowl of ice cream or climbing the stairs is like scaling a bloody mountain, like she’s learning it all from scratch, swallowing and standing and everything else. She wants to shout but her throat is closed, wants to be sick but her stomach is hollow, wants to sleep but her eyes won’t close. And now, alone at last and finally free to let her emotions run wild, unchecked by her clucking sister, she finds that she can’t take the last small shred of succour she thought she had: she’s in so much pain, so much, and she can’t even cry.

She curls up on Henry’s old bed, struck by how small and soft it is. Next to her own bed, as rustic and splintered as the rest of that run-down old house, the smell of clean linen is almost unbearable. Her skin doesn’t know what to do without the scratch of wood, the chill creeping in under the frayed blankets; it feels too tight for her body, like it’s squeezing all her organs.

 _I can’t live like this,_ she thinks, and doesn’t care if that makes her weak, if it makes her worthless, doesn’t care what the hell it makes her. Everything is too much, too overwhelming. How do magic-blind idiots like Belle survive like this?

She drifts, suspended on the silence, delirious and barely half-aware. Her thoughts twist and tangle inside her head, conjuring imaginary noises to fill the deafening nothing. It’s like dreaming without the peace, like floating outside her body and watching as it falls and falls and falls. She feels feverish and frightened, and the visions that haunt her are more like truths than fantasies, the shape of the world to come, her future, stark and bold, a nightmare that lives and breathes as she does.

She sees Robin in her crib, helpless and crying and all alone. _Alone_ , not like she is now but like she was when she was a baby too, abandoned and lost and scared and _no, not that, not her, she can’t ever know how that feels._

She tries to call her name, tries to reach out for her, to remind her that she is loved and wanted and cherished, to swear that she will never, ever, ever have to live like that, but the words won’t come. Her throat is razed and her hands are bound and she can’t move, can’t do anything but choke and gasp as the fear wraps its claws around her throat, tightens and tightens until she can’t breathe either.

She closes her eyes, braces against the pain, and when she finds the strength to open them again her daughter is gone, whisked away by a shadow, the Black Fairy or her father or some other unspeakable monster, and how can she tell her now, how will she ever find her when she’s powerless?

She’s alone again, then, not in Regina’s fancy mansion but in her run-down little farmhouse, boarded up and locked away from the world, unwanted and unloved. She can hear voices outside, Regina and Emma, Belle and Rumple, even the bloody Charmings; the whole town is there, it feels like, and they’re all talking about her.

She can’t make out the words, but she doesn’t need to; she’s heard them all a thousand times before. _Witch_ and _wicked_ , _mean_ and _monster_ and _magic magic magic_. She can feel their hatred burning through the walls of her stupid little home, scorching the wood and striking her skin like stones, like blows, like her childhood. Words make the worst weapons, she knows, and the best ones too. She’s felt their sting more times than she can count, and all the healing magic in the world won’t ever make those wounds disappear.

There’s more after that, countless more, moments imagined and remembered, all playing out like the worst kind of dumb-show, scene after scene after scene, every one of them leaving her alone and helpless, unable to resist or fight, unable to help the people she loves when they need her and unable to defend herself when they turn against her, unable to shield her eyes or her heart from the hate and the heat and the hurt, unable to do anything but feel and feel and _feel_.

She doesn’t know how long it goes on, doesn’t really want to know, but when she hears her name, soft and slow and sweet, it cuts through it all like a knife.

She bursts to the surface like a drowner, gasping for air. The room solidifies around her, becomes tangible again, and the only thing she can see, the only thing in the whole world, is Regina. Her face tired and taut, her eyes wide with worry, her mouth shaping unfamiliar words. _Regina_ in a thousand different colours all at the same time, each one more beautiful than the last.

“It’s all right,” she’s saying. “I’m here, I’ve got you, I’m here. It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right.”

 _No it’s not,_ Zelena thinks, but she still can’t find her voice, can’t even shake her head. She’s shivering, she realises, as cold as ice from head to toe, and of course her first instinct is to summon a fireball, to warm herself with magic like she always does when the nightmares suck the air out of the room. She doesn’t stop to think, doesn’t even try; it’s like a thousand tiny chain reactions all at once, nerves and synapses, her body summoning spells in the same way it summons words or movement or breath. It’s instinct, primal and impossible to define, but _oh god_ , there’s nothing there, nothing inside of her at all. No reaction, no point of contact, just a gaping hole, still bleeding.

She chokes, gasps, and for a moment she’s sure the emptiness will kill her.

“Zelena,” Regina says, softer, softer, like she can slow her sister’s heartbeat by slowing her voice. “Zelena, I’m here. It’s all right. Breathe.”

Almost against her will, she does. The air floods into her chest, chasing away the hollow void, and _oh_ , she can see again, she can breathe again, she’s alive. At least for now, she’s alive.

Regina is touching her face. Her hands are cold, and Zelena pulls away, grumbling deliriously about manners.

It’s ridiculous, of course, like that’s the important issue here, but when Regina laughs it off she doesn’t sound like she really thinks it’s funny at all. She sounds like she has water in her lungs. Worse, she sounds almost exactly like Zelena feels, like she’s drowning.

“Please.” Her voice is ragged, frayed at the edges. “Like you’re in any position to lecture anyone about rudeness.”

Zelena wets her lips. _Speak, you idiot._

“At least…” She clears her throat, pushes the words out by sheer force of will. “At least I ask permission before poking people in the face.”

“Do you?” Regina smiles, wry and still so watery. “Do you _really_?”

Well, that’s unfair. Zelena scowls, and _oh_ , what a relief it is to be fighting over senseless, stupid things like this. “Sometimes.”

“Uh huh.”

She doesn’t stop touching her, though, and she’s far too quick to let the moment of levity die. She’s pale, Zelena realises, her face lined with fatigue and… bloody hell, is that _fear_?

Zelena tries to catch her breath. She slumps back on the bed, blinking up at the ceiling, willing her vision to focus. She feels sick and boneless, like she’s been sprinting for days without rest, and she can’t seem to stop shivering.

“I was dreaming,” she says. “I think?”

Regina nods. “You were. Rather loudly, I might add.”

“Ugh. Sorry.”

Oddly enough, she is. A little bit, at least. Zelena has never particularly cared about the effect her behaviour has on other people, least of all Regina. Frankly, most of the time, the more of a disturbance she causes the better she feels about herself. It’s not like her at all to feel ashamed or guilty, to feel bad about waking her sister in the middle of the night. Hasn’t Regina’s face kept her awake enough times in the past? Hasn’t she tossed and turned all through the night, gorged sick on envy and spite and hate? Isn’t it only fair that Regina be forced to suffer a little insomnia on her behalf as well?

Not any more, apparently. Good grief, how soft has she become?

“It’s all right,” Regina says again. “Like I said, I’m here for you.”

Zelena shakes her head. Her every instinct is screaming at her to resist this cloying compassion, to push it all away before Regina has a chance to second guess herself and reject her again. It’ll hurt less in the end, she tells herself, ripping off that band-aid now, but _oh_ , she’s too weak to even do that. She doesn’t have the strength to turn away the last living constant in her life, the person she’s hated and wanted and loved for as long as she can remember. She wishes she could, wants so badly to depend only on herself like she always did before, but she _can’t_. She is powerless and pathetic, and the silence is so loud, so deafening, so terrifying when she’s alone.

It’s shameful. Humiliating, even. Solitude and isolation are the only home she’s ever really known, the only feeling that’s familiar, but all of a sudden it scares her more than anything. She can’t take care of herself like this. She can’t do anything, can’t even bloody _dream_ without screaming the place down and bringing her sister running, and she hates the weakness, the open wound inside of her, hates everything that makes her need this. Oh, how she hates.

“I don’t…” She blinks rapidly, so close, _so close_ to finally tasting the tears that don’t exist, the ones that still refuse to come.

Regina leans in as close as she can, presses her forehead against Zelena’s, kisses her cheek over and over and over. Her skin is like porcelain, fragile and freezing cold, and then… _oh_ , and then Zelena does taste them, hot and salt-wet, _tears_. They scald her skin, burn her lips, set tiny little fires and then douse them in the next breath. They feel like a gift or a curse, like something in between, something impossible, but just like everything else in this wretched world, they’re not hers.

“It’s all right,” Regina says, and why, _why_ is she allowed to cry when Zelena still can’t? Why, even now, does she get everything?

Zelena pulls away, shaking her head, shaking all over. “I don’t…” she says again, helpless and stupid. “I don’t, I can’t, I hate…”

_This. You. Me. Everything._

She tries to say it, all of it, to finish the thought and to give her pain the voice it deserves, but she can’t do that either. Like the tears, like her magic, like her bloody breath, the words won’t come.

“I hate,” she says again, and just like always it’s not nearly enough. “I _hate_ …”

And Regina pulls her in and holds her close and whispers, “I know.”

*


	2. Chapter 2

*

Morning finds them both exhausted.

It’s been years since Regina felt this sort of sleepless-night grogginess, years since she had to stay up half the night with a suffering family member, since Henry was a little boy prone to fevers and night terrors. He would wake her with his cries, pathetic little whimpering noises that cut the air apart, and she would hold him until he calmed and grew still, even if it took until morning.

She can still remember the stories and lullabies she would soothe him with, each word as clear now as they were back then, can still remember the rhythm of her arms and her body as she held him and rocked him back to sleep. She would do whatever it took to get him to settle down, not because she was tired too but because he was so upset and frightened that she would have ripped out her own heart just to take it all away.

Zelena is not Henry, of course. Regina certainly didn’t need last night’s scathing reminder to remind her of that particular fact, but old habits die hard and for all her sister’s scowling and sulking she is so much like he was.

 _“I’m not a child,”_ Zelena grumbled, angry and defensive. But Regina raised her son from the cradle, if not from the womb, and she knows better than anyone what a child’s pain looks like.

And now it’s morning, and they’re back in the kitchen, and Zelena is small and shivering and silent, just as frightened and miserable as Henry was all those years ago. He was exactly like this, angry and sad at the same time, lost and lonely, so desperate to be comforted but too proud to admit it. It’s like looking through an enchanted mirror, watching the past and the future unfurl at the same time; everything is distorted and discordant, but the memories are still so real.

It shouldn’t surprise her, she supposes, that the two of them are so alike. Zelena has always been childish and sullen, even in her darkest moments. Even back when she was the enemy, those childlike instincts were always there, half-hidden traces of the lonely little girl she used to be, the huddled wretch who learned far too young what wickedness was. Regina had no interest in looking for it back then, but looking back now she realises it was as obvious as the taint on her skin.

It’s not like her to let that little girl out like this, though, and certainly not in front of her sister. It makes her Regina’s heart ache in a way she couldn’t have anticipated, makes her feel something she hasn’t felt in years. Her maternal instincts come awake inside of her, memories of Henry sharpening them to a brutal, brittle point every time she looks at Zelena. She wants to reach across the table, pull her sister into her arms and hug the pain right out of her.

She doesn’t, of course. Zelena would rip her head off if she tried.

Instead, as casual as she dares, she says, “What do you want for breakfast?”

“Nothing.” Zelena doesn’t even look up from the table. “I’m not hungry.”

Regina knew she would say that. Henry always did too, after the bad nights.

“You have to eat something,” she says, just like she said to him all those years ago. “Half a spoonful of ice cream isn’t going to sustain you for very long.”

“I don’t care.”

She’s still not looking at her, still staring down at the marble surface, as blank and expressionless as a wall. Regina sighs, but doesn’t give up. If motherhood has taught her one thing, it’s diligence.

“You need your strength,” she says, and is met with a predictable eye-roll. “Dammit, Zelena…”

“I said I’m not hungry.” Her voice is fractured, a child’s voice to go with her child’s pain. Where’s the bite, the wickedness she’s so famous for? “Leave me alone.”

Regina sighs, and only pretends to do what she’s asked.

She stops talking about it, at least. But she doesn’t let the subject drop, oh no. By sheer force of stubbornness, Zelena stays where she is, slouched and slumped over the kitchen table, watching through bleary, red-rimmed eyes as Regina vindictively goes about making every breakfast food known to man. By hand, even, without even a trace of magic. She may have a point to make, but not even the Evil Queen would use her powers so thoughtlessly in front of someone so thoroughly ruined.

Zelena is not well. That much would be obvious even without the sheen of sweat on her face or the glassy look in her eyes. It’s to be expected after what she did to herself, the body’s reaction to such a violent severance, to being so completely torn apart, but _normal_ doesn’t mean _easy_. Regina knows that it will soon pass, of course she does, but it’s still a nightmare to have to watch.

It’s a terrible thing for someone with magic, being without it and being in pain. Regina might not know the deepest parts of what Zelena is going through — the ‘amputation’, as she called it, of forcibly ripping out a part of herself — but she has suffered and struggled and survived without her powers as well. In all the years of the first curse, she never felt quite so helpless or frustrated as when she or Henry fell victim to some illness or injury and she couldn’t heal them.

She feels helpless again now, and frustrated too, but it is so very different.

She doesn’t mention any of that, of course. She knows better than to reach out a hand to a wounded animal, and in any case she’s learned that patience and distance are the best defences against Zelena’s pride. Zelena will come out of hiding when she wants to; it’s not Regina’s place to push her too hard and risk making things worse.

So, just like she did with Henry all those years ago, she pours herself into rare domesticity. She makes pancakes and waffles and toast from scratch, even lines up boxes of cereals and bowls of fruit. It’s as much an education as it is an attempt to goad her into eating; she wants to show Zelena how it’s done, help her to see that doing things this way is not as impossible as it must seem. Whether it will have the desired effect is another question entirely, but it’s a whole lot better than sitting around and rolling her eyes.

Zelena doesn’t comment. She’s silent for a very long time, and when she finally does speak her voice is just as small and broken as it was before. Oh, how Regina misses the wickedness.

“It won’t work, you know.”

Regina glances back at her, wincing at the pain on her face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Zelena rolls her eyes again. “All this rubbish,” she says. “You could set up a chain of waffle houses from here to the Enchanted Forest for all the difference it would make. I still don’t want breakfast.”

“Maybe not,” Regina concedes patiently. “But if you do—”

“I won’t.”

“— _if you do_ , I want to make things as easy as possible.” Good grief, she’s even more stubborn than Henry was. Regina had no idea such a thing was possible. “You’ve got enough to worry about already. I’d rather not have to sit and watch you impale yourself trying to figure out which end of a butter knife is up.”

Zelena tries to chuckle. It sounds more like a choke. “Touché, sister dear.”

She doesn’t say anything else after that. Regina thinks about trying to antagonise her on purpose, pushing her buttons just to get her to react. It would be nauseatingly petty, but that’s kind of the point; petty has always been Zelena’s favourite colour, and Regina would do just about anything right now to drag some version of normal out of her. Zelena is probably the most expressive person she’s ever met, and this emptiness, this bleak shadow of a body sitting at her kitchen table is the worst kind of heartbreak.

She would do anything to pull her out of that, even resort to pettiness and name-calling if that really is the only language Zelena is willing or able to speak right now. She would do far worse things besides, if that was what it took, but it’s suddenly so hard to find the words that once came so easily to them both, the slings and arrows and insults that passed between them like breath or water. It’s so hard to be cruel, to feign malice when Zelena looks just about ready to take that butter knife to her own throat.

The thought paralyses her, cuts her straight to the bone, and before she even realises how badly it’s shaken her she hears her own voice blurting out Zelena’s name in frenzy.

Zelena blinks, glances up from the table. “What now?”

Regina catches her composure. It devastates her, how deep the dread runs. “You wouldn’t do anything reckless, would you? If I left you alone for a little while?”

Zelena frowns, but keeps a safe distance from the question. “Were you planning on going somewhere?” she asks instead, and the vulnerable look on her face rends Regina’s heart clean through.

“Not right now. But I’ll have to leave the house eventually.”

“Oh.” Zelena swallows a couple of times, thoughtful and uncomfortable, then takes a deep, bracing breath. “Well, I wasn’t planning on running about with scissors, if that’s what you mean.”

It wasn’t. But oh, what a huge relief that she thinks it was.

*

Regina does leave the house a little later, and she is unprepared for the wave of panic that crashes over her. She hasn’t felt it since Henry was a child, since the very first time she left him alone.

It’s absurd. She knows that. Zelena might be a stubborn fool, might be rash and impulsive and more than capable of acting on her worst instincts, but she is not a mewling infant. She is not Robin. Trust might still be an uneasy thing between the two of them, but Regina certainly know that much. If Zelena has promised not to do anything reckless, she will keep her word.

So why the panic, then? Why does she feel like leaving her sister alone in the house is like leaving a little piece of her heart somewhere dangerous, surrounded by sharp knives?

Zelena is frightened too, and she’s too weak to try and hide it. Regina can see the dread burning behind her eyes, big and fever-bright like they were last night, little blue lanterns cutting through the pale lines of her face. They captured Regina’s heart then and they capture it again now, as do the tremors in her voice, as wide as cracks, when she whispers, “What if _she_ comes after me?”

Regina doesn’t need to ask who she means. She hasn’t stopped thinking of the Black Fairy since their little tussle in the mines. And Zelena’s question, thick with dread, is a very good one.

“I’ll put a protection spell around the house,” Regina says, and silently prays that will be enough.

Zelena flinches a little, but doesn’t argue. The reminder must sting, the word _spell_ cast about so carelessly, but she doesn’t let the hurt show through on her face. She’s smart enough to see that it’s necessary, the fear for once more potent than her pride. Better to be stung for a moment than to find herself crushed under the Black Fairy’s heel; better for Regina to be the one who stings her than come home to find her dead. Still, she feels responsible for the look on Zelena’s face, the way it seems to drain out what little colour it had.

She hates that she has to do it like this. She hates that she has to think about it at all, using her magic so carefully, like bursting into song in front of someone who’s had their tongue cut out. The last thing she wants is to flaunt the gift Zelena gave up so selflessly, but necessity overrides compassion when there’s a deranged, murderous fairy on the loose, and they both know it.

And yes, if she’s completely honest, maybe there is a part of her that finds pleasure in this, that relishes it. It has taken years to get here, but at long last she can do for her sister what she was never able to do for her son, use her magic to protect her where the curse kept it from protecting him.

“It’ll be all right,” she says.

“I know,” Zelena lies. Her breath comes in rapid, heaving bursts. She’s pale and trembling, face slick with sweat, and Regina is floored by how desperately she wants to stay here and hold her until all those things bleed away. “I know, I know. I just…”

But Regina knows too, and she will not force her to say the words.

“I won’t be long,” she promises, as soft as a prayer.

Zelena stops her before she can leave, though, a shaking hand gripping her arm so tightly the blood stops. Her nails are sharp, catching the fabric of Regina’s sleeve, but even they don’t have the bite they once did.

“Make sure my daughter’s all right?”

It’s as close to a plea as Zelena ever gets, probably closer than she’s ever gotten before. Regina understands, and she understands why as well. If their positions were reversed, if Henry was a baby again and a dark fairy was prowling the streets while she was powerless and vulnerable, she would plead as well, would beg and bargain with anyone and everyone she could reach, even Gold if she thought there was anything the crafty old lizard could do.

Not that Gold would be much help right now. It’s a rare moment when Regina feels sympathy for that particular devil, and a rarer one still when she almost finds herself worrying about him, but she’s been on the receiving end of a scheming, evil mother herself, and she knows just how ruthlessly they can rip a family apart. Heaven knows, Gold doesn’t deserve a damn thing, least of all the giddy domestic bliss Belle had planned out for him, but not even he deserves _this_.

Leaving Robin with the two of them was a gamble. Regina wouldn’t trust Rumpelstiltskin with anyone else in this town, but she does trust him with Belle, and she certainly trusts Belle with Robin. She saw the look on the girl’s face yesterday, the love of a mother cruelly separated from her own child. Robin may only be a substitute, but Belle has always felt things more strongly than most; she would lay down her life for Robin, if it came to that, as if she were Gideon. As long as the two of them are together, Gold will protect them both. It’s about as close to safety as anyone can hope for right now, and Regina almost regrets the need to separate them.

“I’ll bring her home,” she says to Zelena, “don’t you worry.”

Zelena turns a shade or two paler. “I’ll be rather more worried when you do.”

Though she wishes she didn’t, Regina understands that as well.

*

So, then, she heads straight to Gold’s shop.

It’s not just for Robin’s sake, of course. Like always the shop is where the action is, or at least where it’s most likely to show up. The Blue Fairy is still unconscious, waiting in blissful oblivion while Gold figures out the best way to wake her up without frying her brain or her heart. It’s not a simple task, and it’s considerably less so because Gold is just about stubborn enough to ignore anyone else’s suggestions.

Not that Regina is in any position right now to offer her own input on the matter, but that’s hardly the point.

He’s not there when she arrives, thank heavens, but Belle is. She’s standing watch over the Blue Fairy, the perfect image of a dutiful wife, with Robin nestled safely in her arms. Like always, she’s a vision of peace and tranquillity, everything Gold is not, everything he’ll never, ever be, and for perhaps the thousandth time Regina finds herself wondering what the hell she sees in him. They say love’s blind, and Regina knows that better than most, but _honestly_.

“Morning.”

It’s rather curt as greetings go, but it gets the job done. Belle straightens with a start, spinning on her heels like she’s halfway expecting an attack. Well, given the way things are just now, Regina can hardly blame her for being a little over-cautious, and the relief on her face speaks far more to the sorry state of the town than any real affection for her visitor. They might share the same allies, might fight on the same side most of the time, but they’ve never been bosom friends and they probably never will be.

“Regina.” She’s shaking her head. “You startled me.”

“Not my intention,” Regina assures her. “How’s she doing?”

“Oh, you know…” She gestures at the fairy’s prone form, juggling the baby with some difficulty. “No change yet. But Rumple’s working on it, and I’m sure…”

Regina doesn’t even try to stifle her chuckle. “I was talking about the baby,” she says, not unkindly. “But good to know.”

Of course Belle stammers and turns away, flushing with embarrassment. “Oh.”

Regina thinks about reassuring her, pointing out that Blue’s status was going to be her next question anyway, but she’s learned many many times by now that there is little point in trying to placate a nervous Belle. A part of her can’t help wondering if that’s why Zelena has such a soft spot for the bookish young woman; at least on the surface of it, there’s not much else they have in common, and yet one would have to be blind not to notice the way her otherwise selfish sister drops everything to help her, all the while insisting she’s not.

It must be very easy to fall for someone like Belle, Regina muses. She’s a soft touch, a soft heart; she sees the best in everyone, and treats everything she hears like the most precious secret, no matter how trite or superficial it really is. She blushes at the least little thing, and digs right to the heart of everyone she meets, even a jealous brat of a witch. Regina knows how addictive that sort of personality can be; she blushes a little herself to think about it, to wonder, perhaps for the first time, if maybe Belle is the only true friend her sister has, the only one who didn’t need some great noble sacrifice to believe in her.

The flush on Belle’s face changes colour as she looks down at Robin, becomes deeper, richer, fonder. Regina knows that feeling very well, and she feels herself grow fonder too.

“She’s a little angel,” Belle murmurs, reverent. “Always laughing, always on her best behaviour. Just like her…”

She trails off hastily. Regina quirks a brow. “Please tell me you weren’t about to say ‘mother’.”

“Um.” If possible, she turns even redder. “No, no, of course not. That is… I wasn’t…” She clears her throat maybe half a dozen times, and Regina has to bite down on her tongue to keep from choking on poorly-suppressed laughter. “She’s a joy to have around. That’s what I mean.”

“Of course it is.”

Still, she finds herself softening just a touch. It’s hard to be anything but soft, honestly, when little Robin is giggling and gurgling and looking so completely adorable. Belle has a way of making everything look sweeter than it is, and Robin definitely doesn’t need any help in that department. Regina has no idea where she gets it from; Zelena is certainly not known for her sweetness, and for all his talent in other places Robin Hood was rather more rugged than snuggly.

The thought makes her flinch a little, the loss still keen even now. She swallows it back down, though, drives it back before it can consume her. She’s finally doing better with that, moving on from the grief that still swings at her sometimes when she thinks of her Robin, and she doesn’t want to risk falling back into those dangerous old resentments now. She has blamed Zelena for too long already, pointing a grieving, unfair finger at the most convenient target, and now it’s Zelena who needs her. Regina has let their relationship down enough; now, at last, she’ll do the right thing.

Belle clears her throat, making the transition a bit easier. It’s like she understands how hard it is, seeing the baby and remembering where she came from. Studying the look on her face, all love and empathy and kindness, Regina again wonders why the girl is wasting all those beautiful things on the Dark One.

“How…” She’s characteristically clumsy when she speaks, tripping over the word like she’s nervous. “How’s Zelena?”

Regina smiles. It’s not often she hears her sister’s name spoken with such genuine warmth. Hell, most days, she doesn’t even manage that feat herself. Even now, knowing as she does how desperately Zelena needs her, it’s hard to focus on the weakness and not think of the arrogance that led them here. Regina will be the first to admit that she’s unfair when it comes to Zelena, blinded as family so often is by too many painful memories, but it fills her with a strange sort of peace to hear the affection in Belle’s voice, to see it in her eyes and the way she cradles Robin, to know that at least there was someone who felt kindly about her sister when she herself could not.

Ah, but if only the answer were as bright as the hope in Belle’s eyes. Regina closes her eyes and wishes that cock-eyed optimism could be enough for them all.

“She’s not well,” she admits, and hates herself for the way Belle’s face falls.

It’s more upsetting than it should be, given all the pain Regina has inflicted in her life. Belle is the very best of them all, but she always wears her heart on her sleeve. Seeing her in pain, even just vicariously for someone else, makes Regina feel like she’s drawing a blade across her skin, like she’s just mowed down a puppy right in front of her.

“Oh,” she says, like it’s her own heart that’s in pieces.

Regina sighs again. She doesn’t want to leave this here, doesn’t want to shrug off and dismiss probably the only person in Storybrooke who genuinely cares about her sister. But what can she say to make this easier?

She herself only understands a fraction of what Zelena is going through, only knows the surface struggle of living without her powers; she only knows how it feels to have them silenced, not snuffed out completely; if Zelena’s morbid talk of amputation is anything to go by, that’s a meagre comparison at best. How in the world is she supposed to explain it to Belle, who doesn’t even know what it’s like to have magic in the first place?

“It’ll take some getting used to,” she says, and hopes that’s true, hopes that’s all it will take. “But she’ll get there. As she’s so fond of reminding us, she’s very strong.”

Belle smiles, sad but still so beautiful. “Yeah, she is.”

For a moment, certainly no more, Regina thinks about probing a little deeper into the fondness, the warmth, the blush. _What are your intentions towards my sister,_ she thinks, _and does your husband know about them?_

But even as she thinks it, even as she lets her lips quirk upwards, she’s painfully aware of the damage it would do to voice that particular question. These things are very delicate, she knows, and holding them up to the light often does more harm than good. Gold doesn’t need to be in the room to know what happens behind closed doors, and Zelena wouldn’t be the only one to suffer if he got wind of this.

Besides, who knows better than Regina the importance of keeping secrets?

So, then, let Belle have her feelings, whatever they are. Let her keep them as close to her heart as those silly books of hers. Regina won’t destroy what little happiness her sister might have found, and certainly not to sate her own curiosity.

“I’m sure she’d appreciate a visit,” she says instead, and good grief, when did she become a hopeless romantic? “She’s staying with me for the time being, and… well, I’d sooner not leave her alone for too long.”

She doesn’t elucidate on that, but Belle has always been good at reading between the lines. She stiffens slightly, lips thinning to a fine line, but doesn’t ask. Regina wonders if she’s afraid of the truth, afraid to hear it said aloud. _I think she might hurt herself, I think she might be feeling some very dark things, I think her pain might be more than I can heal._

“I can look after her any time,” Belle offers quietly, shifting Robin’s weight in her arms. “Either one of them, I mean.”

“Thank you,” Regina says, and she means it.

They face each other awkwardly for a few minutes. Regina isn’t used to feeling so out of place, to counting down the seconds until she can politely take her leave. Belle seems rather attached to Zelena’s daughter, no doubt channelling some of her grief over her not-so-prodigal son, and Regina is loathe to take away what meagre solace she’s found in Robin.

Besides, she’s no more eager to take Robin away from here than Belle is to give her up. Notwithstanding the simple fact that Robin is safer here, the thought of having her at home is devastating in a way she doesn’t expect or truly understand. It’s hard enough, thinking of Henry every time she looks at her sister, but just the thought of having an actual baby under her roof again is a bitter pill to swallow.

She didn’t expect this to be so difficult, to hit her so hard. Zelena has always been immature, a fully-grown child dressed up as a villain, but until now it was easy to draw the line, to shrug it off as the struggles of someone who never knew a parent’s love. Now, though, it’s very different. Now, all of a sudden, Zelena has a thousand reasons to think and feel and act like a child, to behave just like Henry did when he was too young and too small to take care of himself. Now Regina is playing the role of mother again, and she did not expect to feel it so deeply, to still find the memories so strong, so powerful inside her. Henry is growing up so fast, so eager to fill the final page in that damn story book, and where will it leave her when he does?

Alone, apparently, with a sister too broken to take care of herself.

It’s not exactly how she saw the curtain falling on her life, but perhaps in a way it’s fitting. The only time Regina ever felt like her life had any value was when she was a mother, when her whole world revolved around raising Henry. Zelena might be her sister and not her child, but heaven knows the woman never knew a mother’s kindness. So yes, perhaps there is a touch of poetry in that. Not much, certainly not enough to undo all the wrong they’ve inflicted and received, but isn’t a little better than nothing?

“I could take her back,” Belle offers. Regina blinks, yanked roughly out of her reverie, and Belle mistakes her disorientation for confusion. “Keep an eye on her while I’m there, maybe?”

“How thoughtful,” Regina says, with real gratitude. “And please, for the love of god, try and get her to eat something.”

Belle frowns. “She’s not eating?”

Regina isn’t sure how much of that she should share, whether it’s really her place to share anything at all. Belle has always been an expert in dragging honesty out of the most unsuspecting places, though, and she drags it out of Regina too.

“She’s not doing much of anything,” she admits softly. “She… well. It’s not an easy adjustment to make.”

“I understand,” Belle says, though she must surely know that’s not true. She looks down at Robin, cooing and giggling like she’s a blood relative, not just a convenient babysitter. It’s such a bittersweet sight. “Well, we’ll see what we can do. Won’t we, little one?”

Robin, shockingly, has nothing of any merit to contribute. _Like mother, like daughter,_ Regina thinks automatically, then immediately hates herself for being so cruel.

“I put a spell up around the house,” she says to Belle, silencing the thought as quickly as she can. “She’ll have to invite you in.”

Belle nods, smiles. “That’s all right.”

She’s so hopeful, so damn idealistic. Her presence can’t possibly make Zelena any more miserable than she already is, can it? God knows, the girl could light up a black hole.

In any case, Belle is the one person Zelena trusts with her daughter; it’s only fair that she be the one to bring her safely home. That way, if she doesn’t feel ready to be a mother again, if she feels the need to take care of herself before she tries to take care of her daughter, she can send them both back here without any trouble. Belle’s already smitten with the baby, and it doesn’t take a genius to see that she would leap at the chance to keep her for another night or two. And, well, it would certainly set Regina’s mind at ease…

“All right,” she says. “I’ll trust it to you. If she tells you to leave, though, do as she asks. Don’t push her too hard. We both know she doesn’t react well to feeling vulnerable, and… well, just because she’s lost her magic doesn’t mean she couldn’t do some serious damage if she felt threatened.”

“She knows me,” Belle says, with all the certainty of a lover. “She’d never feel threatened by me.”

For all three of their sakes, Regina desperately hopes that’s true.

*

Back outside, she runs into Team Charming.

“Gold’s working on it,” Emma says, by way of introduction, and it takes Regina far longer than she’d ever admit to remember that yes, the Blue Fairy is still their most pressing concern.

“Good,” she says, though with rather less feigned interest than she did with Belle. Emma knows her well enough by now to recognise that she doesn’t care. “I’d offer to help, but…”

“You’ve already got your hands full,” Snow finishes with her trademark gentleness. “Is she…?”

“Hanging in there,” Regina says, cutting off the question perhaps a little more sharply than she should.

She’s not sure why she does that, why she feels compelled to shield Zelena’s pain from Snow White’s cloying optimism. It should be comforting that the spoiled little princess actually took the time to ask after someone not inside her immediate circle; Regina, certainly, is impressed. But then she’s rather more used to the Charmings’ unique breed of idealism than Zelena is, and she knows exactly what her sister would have to say about it.

Emma understands, of course. Without needing to hear any of that, she sees it all. “Good,” she says, and shoots a silencing look at her parents. “Take all the time you need, both of you. We’ve got the fairy situation covered.”

Regina rather doubts that’s true, especially given the scene that met her at Gold’s, but right now she’ll happily take the lie over the less pleasant truth. Snow is right about that, at least; she does have her hands full, and while it’s never been easy for Regina to admit when she can’t handle more than one problem in any given moment, somehow sharing the weight doesn’t come quite as hard as it once did. Apparently her relationship with this family of lovable idiots has evolved to the point that it’s no longer a world-ending humiliation to accept a helping hand.

“Where’s Henry?” she hears herself ask.

The question, coming out of nowhere as it does, takes them all by surprise, herself as much as the Charmings. It tastes like panic in her mouth, like a hundred worst-case scenarios all at the same time, and she has no idea where in the world the feeling came from.

Emma raises a brow, but doesn’t comment on the obvious melodrama.

“With Killian,” she says. “I wanted to keep him as far away from all of this as possible, and…”

_And, let’s face it, Hook is about as helpful in a crisis as Zelena._

Blessedly, Regina has enough self-control to keep that particular sentiment to herself. Far be it from her to ever criticise the Saviour’s choice of boyfriends — _fiancés_ , even, because apparently the Charming love of poorly-timed weddings is genetic — but heaven knows the pirate isn’t winning any competitions for usefulness.

That said, she knows as well as anyone here that there are far worse people to trust Henry with. Even in his most piratical days Hook was never much of a threat to anyone, and loathe as she is to admit it even Regina has noticed the way he and Henry get along together. Well, teenage boys will flock together, she supposes, and wisely keeps that thought to herself as well; not that Emma could argue with it, per se, but still. Best to not make this into a measuring contest. The important thing, she knows, is that her son is safe.

So why, then, does she hear herself blurt out, in a voice entirely not her own, “With respect, Miss Swan, I’d rather have him where I can keep an eye on him”?

Emma stares. So do the Charmings. Well, Regina can’t exactly blame them for that, can she? They’re a perceptive bunch, for all their silly idealism, and it’s not like her to court paranoia for no apparent reason. Not even for Henry.

No-one says anything for a long, uncomfortable moment. Regina can see Snow White fighting a war against herself, the part of her that always needs to stick its nose in struggling against the part of her that understands this is none of her business. Regina flatters herself that it’s more than just curiosity this time, though, that there’s a hint of concern in there as well. It’s been a long time coming, but Snow’s friendship is one of Regina’s most cherished rewards, the hardest and the longest coming; she’d like to think Snow feels the same way, but it’s always so hard to tell with heroes. The real kind, anyway, the kind that’s born and not made; her kind, sadly, still wears its heart on its perfectly tailored sleeve.

Not that it matters in the end, which of her private emotions govern Snow’s inner conflict. The common-sense part of her wins in the end, for once, and with a bit of difficulty she manages to hold her tongue.

It’s Emma who doesn’t. Her face is a picture, a dozen or more emotions furrowing her brow, leaving her expression cloudy and unusually hard to read.

“Mom, Dad.” Her tone is even, but there’s something under it that makes Regina flinch. “Can you give us a minute?”

Regina sighs. She could do without the dramatics, frankly, but she understands the need for privacy. She and Emma are always their best selves when they’re alone together, when there’s no-one to distract them, when they only have each other to answer to. The look on Emma’s face tells her this is serious, but they share a mutual respect now that means she’s always willing to hear her out.

Still, it’s not something Regina looks forward to, having to defend herself against the Saviour once again, and she’s probably a little too cutting when she snaps, “It’s not what you think.”

“Good,” Emma says. She seems sincere enough on the surface, but Regina has spent years studying the colours of her voice and she recognises the doubt lurking underneath. “Because what I _think_ is that you don’t trust my fiancé with our son.”

Well, she’s not exactly wrong. Regina won’t insult either of their intelligence by pretending otherwise.

“True as that may be,” she says, ignoring Emma’s histrionic muttering, “it’s not about the pirate.”

Emma studies her for a moment, no doubt using her less-than-accurate ‘super power’ to measure her truthfulness.

“Then what the hell is it about?” she asks when she’s satisfied. “I swear, you looked at me like I said I’d left him with Cruella.”

 _At least the fur-loving lunatic could handle a weapon,_ Regina thinks, then sighs because _oh, look, another thought best kept to myself_.

It’s a shame, really. She’s made so much progress with the Charming family over the last few years, yet still sometimes it feels so fragile. Regina is not often ashamed of saying what she thinks, but in moments like this, moments when she feels — heaven forbid — a little exposed, it feels like coming up against a barrier, a protection spell that even her magic can’t penetrate. Maybe that’s the price of having a family, of wanting to be part of one. Who knew that one day she’d actually care what these idiots think of her?

She wonders if she’ll ever overcome that self-consciousness, if she’ll ever get through a full conversation with Snow or Emma without feeling the need to watch her words at least half a dozen times. She’s still so scathing, so naturally caustic, only now she’s become aware of little things like _etiquette_ , of the differences between them, the fact that the Charmings simply don’t communicate the way she does. So often she feels like she has to censor herself when she talks with them, keeping her most corrosive parts hidden so they don’t get too upset. Even Emma, who knows her better than all the others combined, looks at her sometimes like her sense of humour is another kind of curse.

It makes her sad to think about it sometimes, to realise how far she still has to go with these people who are her family, these people she’s learned to love. Right now, with all that’s going on, it makes her miss Zelena’s wickedness all the more. For all their struggles and conflicts, for all the ways sisterhood never came naturally to them, at least they’ve always been alike in the way they speak.

It’s still a challenge, striking the balance with Emma when she’s tapping her foot and waiting for an explanation. Regina feels like it should be easier than it is, diluting her feelings into something palatable, something a little less like herself and a little more like a hero. And maybe that’s the problem: all of a sudden, she _wants_ to be like these stupid idiotic heroes. At the very least, that’s how she wants them to see her. God help her, she seems to have picked up a conscience.

It’s hard to be vulnerable, to expose herself like this. It’s hard to admit that she is still prone to irrational, selfish stupidity, to worrying about things she knows aren’t real. And yes, perhaps she values Emma’s opinion more highly than she’d ever admit, perhaps — heaven help her — she cares as well, in her own way, because the thought of disappointing her, of making her laugh, is just about the worst thing she can imagine.

Emma has always been able to see through her, though, and the suspicion on her face softens suddenly into something a little closer to affection. In a way, Regina thinks, that makes it even harder. She’ll never get used to thinking of the Saviour as a friend, will never get used to being looked at like that. She’ll certainly never get used to wanting it.

“Regina.” Emma’s voice has transformed now too, becoming as soft as her expression. Regina wishes she wasn’t so weak to this, so damn susceptible to those Charming charms. “What’s this really about?”

“Is it so strange to want to keep my son where I can see him?” Regina snaps, defensive in all the ways she knows she shouldn’t be, doesn’t need to be. “The Black Fairy isn’t exactly the type to sit around waiting for us to give her an opening, and given what happened in those goddamned mines…”

Emma frowns a little. Regina can almost feel her trying to punch a hole through her emotional barriers. _Good luck with that, Miss Swan_.

“In the mines?” Emma presses after a moment. Her voice is too keen; like always, it finds its mark with pinpoint precision. “Or afterwards?”

 _You know me so well,_ Regina thinks, but she refuses to say that, refuses to admit that it’s true and that she loves it that way.

Still, something about Emma’s openness, her willingness to say what she feels without hesitation makes it easier to offer just a little of the same in return. Regina has always struggled with these frank conversations, and all the more so when they involve Henry. She has fought long and hard against her feelings here, the gnarled old resentments that are never quite so dead as she wants them to be. It’s still difficult , sharing the one thing that’s truly hers, the son she poured so much of herself into raising, and harder still because she knows in her heart that this is right, that Emma is just as good a mother as she is, and in many ways a much better influence.

It’s a balance, this thing they have, and on days like today, the irrational, paranoid ones, it’s harder than ever to sustain it, to keep her feet on the ground while her heart is drifting.

“You weren’t there when he was a little boy,” she hears herself whisper. “You didn’t see him when he had nightmares or when he was sick. You didn’t see him when he was _helpless_.”

“I’ve seen him that way,” Emma says. It’s gentle, though, like she can tell this is about more than just that. “I have memories…”

But she trails off, lets the sentence die, because they both know it’s not the same thing.

Regina shakes her head, frustration that has nothing to do with Emma and everything to do with herself. “She’s just like him.”

Emma frowns. “Zelena?”

“Believe it or not, yes. She’s like he was, I mean, like he used to be. So stubborn and vulnerable and… did I mention stubborn?” She musters a laugh, but it’s wan and wholly unconvincing. “She won’t eat, can’t sleep, doesn’t listen to a single word I say. And I’m trying to be firm with her, I really am. She’s a grown woman, for god’s sake, not a child like he was. But goddammit, she _needs_ me. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since Henry did?”

“Not as long as you’d think,” Emma says.

It’s soft, though, muted like her eyes, like maybe she’s been feeling a little of the same ache herself.

“I’m not used to being impotent,” Regina says with a sigh. It’s a hard thing to admit, and it cuts very deep; Emma, recognising this, finds her hand and squeezes. “Henry, and now Zelena too. When the final battle comes, how the hell am I supposed to protect them? They’d both sooner die than admit to needing help from the likes of us, but… hell, you’ve been through enough battles to recognise what’s coming. We both have.”

“Yeah.” The word is a sigh. Regina wonders if Emma’s been struggling with this too. She spends so much more time with Henry than Regina does these days. “There might not be an easy way out. For anyone.”

Regina swallows. Her heart is knotted. “And if there’s not…”

Emma doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. She’s living it right there with her.

It takes Regina a long, long time to find enough breath to keep speaking, to press on and say what she needs to. She has a lot of reasons to loathe and resent Hook — not least of all, _Emma_ — but they’re petty and frivolous and entirely her own, and she won’t leave here while Emma thinks so little of her.

“It’s not about the pirate,” she says again, at long last. “Or you, or anyone else. I swear that. I just… hell, I just want to spent some time with my son. I just want to be able to hug him or kiss him goodnight or make him a goddamn sandwich. I just want…”

_I just want to pretend, if only for a moment, that things are still the way they once were._

It’s so selfish, so indulgent. She feels like a brat for saying it, like the spoiled, entitled little thing she saw in Snow White back in the Enchanted Forest all those years ago. She feels irrational and out of control, and she wants to back away, to say _‘never mind, forget it, it’s the lack of sleep talking’_ , to pretend this whole ill-advised conversation never happened, but the moment she tries, the moment she even thinks of trying, her mind swells with visions of Zelena back home, lost and broken and Henry-stubborn, and how can she see that, how can she even think about it without longing for the days when it was him, when she was his only protector?

“I’m sorry,” she sighs, feeling like an idiot. The shame flares, and she turns her face away before Emma can see the colour of her cheeks. “I know it makes no sense.”

But Emma is smiling sadly, and her fingers are warm against Regina’s, and oh, _oh_ , this is how it feels to be part of something, to be seen and known and understood.

“No.” Her voice is whisper, rich and thick with grief. “It makes perfect sense.”

*


	3. Chapter 3

*

By the time Belle shows up on the doorstep, Zelena is feeling a little better.

Well. In some places, at least. She’s getting used to the awful feeling in her body, the dissonance between her insides and her outsides. The physical discomfort is fading somewhat, becoming more like a background noise than the deafening roar it was last night. It still annoys the hell out of her, static scratching under her skin and seething in her stomach, but she can ignore it as long as she has something else to hold her attention. She can breathe, at least for the most part, without having to focus every molecule on the task.

Still, for all that so-called improvement, the clang of the doorbell scares her half to death.

Looking through Regina’s little peephole is an ordeal in itself — and good grief, the fact that she has to do that now is a misery all its own — but she’s not prepared for the wave of panic, the confusion and self-doubt when she sees Belle’s face, when she sees her beautiful daughter nestled in her arms. Zelena has never had any reason to question her own senses before, but all of a sudden she has no idea whether she should believe what her eyes are telling her.

How can she know, really and truly _know_ , that this isn’t some elaborate trick from the Black Fairy? How can she be sure it really is Belle out there? And even if it is, how can she be sure that she’s not being controlled somehow? Every question, every flicker of doubt, throws up a thousand more, more and more and more until she’s drowning in them.

She never gave any thought to these sorts of questions before, never had any reason to. Zelena had enough enemies to populate a realm or two, but why would she waste her time worrying when she could incinerate anyone who tried to cross her? They were the weak ones, not her. They were the ones who would suffer for their arrogance, not her; she was all-powerful and unstoppable, and for the longest time it simply went without saying that she would lay waste to any threat that came her way. But now… _now_ …

Now, if she’s wrong, she’ll be dead before she even knows how or why. In all her life, she has never been quite so aware of her own mortality or her fragile, fragile heartbeat.

“How do I know it’s you?” she asks the peephole, feeling frightened and foolish.

Belle shifts Robin’s weight in her arms, then holds her up to the door. “She’ll vouch for me,” she says. “I mean, we’re in for a bit of a wait if you want to hold out until she can talk, but…”

She trails off with a shy smile, and the ridiculous, giddy look on her face makes Zelena relax a bit. Only the real Belle would find that sort of nonsense amusing.

Mollified, if only for the time being, she yanks the door open. “Come on in, then,” she snaps, playing up her trademark haughtiness and not really convincing anyone. “You bloody idiot.”

It’s the most wonderful and terrible feeling in the world, finally having her daughter back in her arms, loving her with every fibre of her being while at the same time knowing exactly how powerless she is to protect her. Robin is heavy now, in a way she wasn’t the last time Zelena held her, but at the same time she feels so much smaller and more fragile than she ever did before. It’s terrifying, knowing that there’s nothing she can do, that they’re both as helpless and dependent as each other. Robin is so precious, so perfect. For the first time, Zelena can see just how easily she might break.

She changes her mind all too quickly after that, and she thrusts the whimpering little bundle back into Belle’s arms, feeling weaker than she ever has in her life.

“You should hold onto her,” she croaks. “She’s comfortable with you.”

Belle frowns a little, but doesn’t argue. She takes Robin back without hesitation, cooing and murmuring down at her, and Zelena feels the echo of each little sound like a hammer against her nerves. The pain is unbearable, but she smiles through it because at least this way Robin is safe… or if she’s not, at least it’s not her fault.

“How are you feeling?” Belle asks, after she’s gotten Robin settled and comfortable.

Zelena turns her face away, taking a sudden fascination with the walls, Regina’s hideous wallpaper and paintings. The place feels like a morgue, like her insides; she focuses on that, and tries not to think too hard about Belle’s face.

“How do you think?” she asks, feeling the heat, the shame, as it sears the back of her neck.

Robin sniffles a little, like she’s trying to be a part of this conversation too. Belle rocks her a little, humming snatches of lullabies until she quiets down.

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” she says.

That helps a little, actually. Not a lot, but still more than Zelena expected it to.

“You’re the first one to admit that,” she says, struck by how difficult it still is to choke out more than half a sentence. “Regina’s so sure she knows everything just because she lived under the bloody curse for five minutes. She won’t listen when I say she doesn’t have a clue.” She chuckles, but it’s cracked and hoarse, like dry twigs thrown on an open flame. “I don’t know what I expected, really. She never listened to me before, why should she start now?”

“I’m sure she’s doing her best,” Belle says.

“I’m sure she believes that too.” She sighs. Already, this feels pointless. “Look. It was thoughtful of you to come, but I’m not the best company at the moment.”

Belle’s smile is infuriatingly pretty. “That’s never stopped me before.”

“Oh, you’re a clever one.” She’s thankful, though, relieved to be treated like herself for a change, like a person instead of a project, and a little of that sickening sentimentality bleeds into her voice without permission. “I suppose your husband will be showing up next to offer his condolences?”

“I doubt it,” Belle says, and bless her, she actually sounds apologetic.

Zelena thinks about making a scathing comment or two about the apple not falling far from the tree, about the Dark One being more like his mother than he’d care to admit. She doesn’t, though, and not just because she doesn’t have the strength to follow through. She’s too soft now, and still much too weak. What’s the point in even trying to strike a blow against someone else when everyone in this despicable town knows that a light breeze could knock her out right now?

(The fact that insulting Rumple would probably upset Belle too is, of course, completely irrelevant.)

“Thank you,” she says instead. She’s so exhausted, and she hates how obvious it is, how sickly she sounds; worse, she hates that Belle is the one person she doesn’t mind seeing her like this. “For bringing her home, I mean. I don’t imagine I’m much of a mother at the moment, but…”

Belle shakes her head. “From my experience,” she says, wearing her broken little heart on her sleeve, “magic only ever makes things worse. You’ll be a better mother without it, Zelena, believe me.”

Zelena doesn’t believe her, not one bit, but she can see how hard the confession comes, how deep the poor girl has to dig to face her own sorry truth. If this nightmarish experience has taught her anything at all, it’s how badly things like this can hurt everyone. For all the ways Zelena has helped her since the Dark One knocked her up, Belle doesn’t owe her anything, least of all an all-expenses-paid trip through the mire of her own pain.

So, instead of pushing, she puts on a brave face, her best face, and can’t believe how much it hurts.

“We’ll see about that,” she says, and swallows hard.

Belle composes herself, then changes the subject with her usual bulldozer blitheness. “Regina says you’re not eating?”

“My dear sister is prone to exaggeration.” She takes a deep breath, steadying her stomach; just the thought of all those bloody pancakes makes it roil like Hook’s stupid ship. “And excessive cooking.”

“Zelena…”

Oh, she knows that tone. The ‘you’ve been through a lot’ tone, the ‘you need to take care of yourself’ tone. The ‘how do you expect to get better if you won’t eat?’ tone, like all the pancakes in the world could ever fill a hole as big as the one inside her.

Belle isn’t quite like Regina; she doesn’t have her flair for the dramatic, her ex-villain eye-rolls or her maternal ‘do as I say’ scowl, and her voice is soft and sweet where Regina’s is sharp. Still, hearing her name in that bloody tone, feeling it catch fire on the air, Zelena finds herself marvelling at how alike they seem. She knows what’s coming next, and she hates it, she hates that these idiots care about her, she hates that she wants them to.

“If you tell me it’s ‘for my own good’…” she warns.

“That’s not what I was going to say,” Belle says, and she looks so sincere, so bloody apologetic that Zelena wants to banish her and never look back. “I’m sure you know that already.”

“I do. And I know I’ve ‘been through a lot’ too, so save your breath.”

Belle sighs, shakes her head. “I wasn’t going to say that either.” Another sigh, this one more painful for them both. “I was just going to ask why.”

“Why what? Why I seem to have lost my appetite along with my magic?”

“Yes.” Typical bloody bookworm, always asking stupid questions. Zelena feels like some kind of experiment, a specimen under a microscope or, worse, one of Archie’s idiot patients. “Is it some kind of side-effect of what you went through, or…”

“…or am I starving myself on purpose?”

Belle blushes a little, but she doesn’t insult Zelena’s intelligence by trying to deny it.

“Regina’s worried about you,” she says. “I don’t know much about your relationship with each other… I mean, well, I know it’s complicated, but I don’t…” She sighs again. “I just mean, she seemed very worried.”

“She worries a lot,” Zelena huffs.

“Not like this.” Belle shifts Robin’s weight in her arms, trying to redistribute it a little. Zelena knows that the baby must be getting uncomfortably heavy by now, but Belle doesn’t utter so much as a squeak of complaint. “I’ve only ever seen her this worried about Henry.”

There it is again, _Henry_ , the name thrown about like there’s any likeness between them, like Zelena is as useless and stupid as a pubescent boy. Her temper flares against her will, and she braces for the flame, the magic that surges whenever she feels things, but of course there’s nothing there.

It makes her feel so empty, so hollowed-out inside. She’s never had the luxury of just having emotions without repercussion, has never known the flicker of feeling without the echoing hum of magic in her chest and her veins. Anger like this always brought it up to the surface quickest, fireballs in her palm or electricity crackling up her arms. It was so natural, so complete a part of herself; there are no words to describe how strange it feels to only have one part of it now, to only feel _angry_ and nothing else.

It drains the soul right out of her. The fire that used to be inside of her, the _life_ that was inside of her, it doesn’t exist any more. It’s _gone_ , it’s not there, it’s _wrong_ , and how, how do people feel these things without it? She’s so angry, she’s full of it, choking on it, but it’s wrong, it’s not the way it should be, the way it always was, and she doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to process it now. _Where is it,_ she thinks, feverish and delirious, _where’s the magic, the only thing that makes these awful feelings make sense?_

She falls to her knees, feeling the loss tear through her all over again, and she’s only faintly aware of Belle standing over her, of Robin’s confused little whimpers, of the world as it closes in and strangles her.

_I’m not whole_ , she thinks. _I’m not a person any more._

“Zelena?” Belle sounds so frightened.

“I’m not a child,” Zelena says, choking out the words just like she did last night with Regina, clinging to them because they’re the last thing she remembers thinking. “I’m not a bloody _child_.”

And oh, how desperately she wants to believe that.

*

Apparently not getting the message, Belle cuts up some of Regina’s apples.

Zelena doesn’t eat, of course. She stares at the neat little slices for a while, scowling and grumbling about how much she hates the red ones, then spends the next few minutes stacking them into a tower and spitefully toppling them over.

It’s not the most compelling support for her ‘I’m not a child’ argument, but she doesn’t expect Belle to believe her any more than Regina did, any more than she herself does. God, she wishes she really was still a child, a sulky little brat like Henry. Maybe then she might feel justified in being unable to cope with any of this.

Belle isn’t as prone to tough love as Regina. She clicks her tongue a little at the waste of food, but for the most part she seems content to let Zelena do as she likes without really expecting anything. Zelena supposes that’s the big difference between Belle and Regina: they both thrive on common sense, but Belle understands where Regina does not that ‘common sense’ is a strange, frightening concept to someone like Zelena. She is patient; Regina is not.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asks. She’s uncomfortable, Zelena can tell, not at home in Regina’s kitchen. Well, with this décor, who would be? “Some tea, maybe?”

Zelena thinks of Regina’s ginger-flavoured abomination, and shakes her head.

“You’ve done your civic duty,” she says, eyes on the table as she sets to work restacking her apple tower. “You’ve checked in on the cripple, made sure she’s still alive, put some food in front of her.” It’s strange, talking about herself in the third person, but somehow it makes the whole messy ordeal seem a little less immediate, not quite so personal. “You can go back to your husband and your not-dead fairy now.”

She has to bite down very hard to keep from adding _‘and take my daughter with you, take her back where she’ll be safe’_.

Belle doesn’t let her get away with the self-deprecation act, though. “I’m not here out of any ‘civic duty’, Zelena,” she chides. “You know that. I mean, if you haven’t figured it out by now…”

“Oh, please.” Her throat feels razed. She wants to cry, wants Belle to see the tears that have never touched another living soul, but she can’t, she won’t, she _can’t_. “You expect me to believe my sister didn’t ask you to ‘stop by’ or ‘check in on me’ or whatever coded lingo she’s using nowadays?”

She doesn’t expect the sting when Belle’s face falls, the guilt and shame of someone caught in a lie; she knew it was, knew it had to be, but seeing it confirmed still cuts deep. It was foolish and naive, really, daring to hope that there was something else there, that some part of this really was Belle’s idea. _Oh, no, Regina, don’t worry, I’ll take Robin back to her mummy. It’s been so long since we had a nice chat. I’d so love to see her._

Stupid, really, to even pretend to believe that might have been true. No-one ever visits a self-pitying invalid for any reason other than obligation. Not even…

Belle doesn’t say anything for a long time. It’s disgusting, really, the way she’s clearly trying to figure out the least upsetting way to crawl out of this; she’s not even subtle about it.

Zelena thinks about telling her not to bother. She’s just about self-aware enough to realise that it’s not really fair to blame Belle, or even Regina, for making her feel so bloody pathetic; her moment of heroic madness did a fine enough job of that all on its own. It’s not their fault that she’s an open vein right now; she’s the one who tore out her guts and bones and expected the world to understand. She’s the one who hacked off her own limbs in some great ‘noble ‘sacrifice’ then wondered why it hurt. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that her frustration is misplaced.

Still, Belle has a little more of that lovely patience in reserve, and when she sighs it’s almost musical. Nothing like the way Regina does it, the way her eyes make Zelena feel like the worst kind of burden. Belle’s sigh isn’t that much softer than Regina’s, but her eyes are from another world. There’s a gentleness to her that a former villain like Regina will never be able to match; it makes Zelena burn in places that have only ever felt the cold.

“I’ll go if you want me to,” Belle says. “If you’d rather be alone, I understand. But you should know I’m here because I want to be. Because I care about you.”

Zelena thinks of Rumple, of their marriage bed. “Do you?”

“ _Yes_. How can you even ask that?”

“I don’t know.” It’s true; she doesn’t. “I don’t know much of anything any more.”

“Well, I do. And I’m sure…” Her voice breaks; it’s brief, but it’s such a rare thing for her that it piques Zelena’s attention. “I’m sure Regina cares about you too. She wouldn’t have offered to let you stay here if she didn’t.”

“Bollocks.” She blurts it out without thinking, slamming her palm down onto the counter and not caring at all that she’s swearing in front of the baby. Her newly-reassembled apple tower collapses all over again, and for a blessed second she lets herself pretend it was magic that did it and not gravity. “My sister is letting me stay here because she feels responsible. Because she feels guilty, because she pities me, because she thinks I’ll do something stupid if she leaves me alone.” Belle opens her mouth to deny it, but the words won’t come, and Zelena knows then that it’s true. “I’m just another bloody project to her. Another broken ex-villain, ripe for reforming.”

“I think all three of us know you’d never let that happen,” Belle says.

“Like I’d have a choice,” Zelena mutters. “I’m as weak as a kitten.”

Belle studies her for a good long while. “Now, I know that’s not true,” she says. “And so does Regina. She gave me explicit instructions, you know, to run for my life if you told me to leave.”

She’s trying to smile, but maybe she does care a little after all because it’s kind of miserable. Zelena doesn’t know why that makes her feel better, why it makes her feel like maybe it’s okay to be irrational and angry and upset, but it does. Belle is so good at that; she radiates empathy and understanding, compassion of a sort that Zelena has never felt or known or even seen before.

Regina tries, she really does, but she and Zelena are too much alike, both strong and stubborn and so bad at being good; their mother’s blood runs thick through their veins, and it erodes their softness into something terribly hard. Zelena doesn’t trust Regina when she tries to be kind, and she wonders now for the first time if maybe that’s because Regina doesn’t trust it in herself either.

Belle, though? Zelena has a horrible, terrible, frightening feeling that she would trust her with anything.

She closes her eyes, tries to work through the mess of her stupid feelings. Frustration, fury, fear, and so many other things besides. She wants to be left in peace and quiet, but she is so afraid of being alone with her fragile, beautiful daughter.

“I do want you to leave,” she says, though she keeps her eyes shut as she says it. “I’m not here to be your charity case, or Regina’s, or anyone else’s. I don’t want to hear ‘it’ll get easier’ or ‘it’ll all be okay’, or any of that bloody nonsense.”

“I don’t think I said any of those things,” Belle says. “But if I did, I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry, she’s sorry. Everyone’s bloody _sorry_. Are we done here?”

“If you want us to be.”

She does, but she also maybe doesn’t, and bloody hell, why is everything so _complicated_ all of a sudden? She breathes through her nose, shoving the silly little apple slices as far away as she can; her stomach is seething now, and her lungs won’t do what she tells them to, won’t help her to breathe through the discomfort. She feels so weak, so untethered, and all she wants is to lie down under a blanket and never get back up.

“Can you…” she starts, then trails off with a frustrated huff. She doesn’t know how to finish, how to ask for the thing she both wants and doesn’t want. “That is, would you mind…”

But Belle doesn’t need to hear it. Maybe she sees it in her eyes, the fear she won’t ever allow a voice, or maybe she just remembers the way Zelena recoiled from holding her own daughter. Robin is the only source of joy Zelena has ever known; Zelena crossed realms and realities to get back to her, not just once but again and again. It can’t have escaped Belle’s notice, the fact that all of a sudden just being near her is enough to make her tremble and turn pale.

Their relationship is messy at best, they’d both admit that. Belle certainly can’t claim to understand what’s going on inside Zelena’s head, but she has to see the change in her now, has to understand what it means and where it came from. She’s the biggest bloody know-it-all Zelena has ever met; it’s not exactly a shock that she knows this as well.

“You want me to watch her for another night?” she says, kind and entirely too forgiving. “I can do that.”

It stings a little, the way she makes it sound like this is just another meaningless favour, like she’s just babysitting for a day or two. Which... okay, technically, she is. Zelena knows that, she really does. But _oh_ , try telling a woman who never knew a mother’s love that abandoning her child to someone else’s care isn’t the worst kind of cruelty.

Zelena feels more guilty about this than she’s ever felt about anything. She, who has killed and maimed, who committed so much of her life to doing unspeakable things without a moment’s remorse. How fitting that the loss of her magic has dragged other kinds of weakness out of her too.

She is too afraid to touch her own daughter, too afraid to even try and take care of her, and somehow that makes her feel worse than she would have if she were some terrible excuse for a parent, evil or violent or worse, a nobody who only cared about herself. It’s peculiar; she always thought she would be that kind of parent, the terrible kind, the only kind she ever knew, and yet here she is, worrying about the tiniest little things, the smallest marks on her daughter’s perfect little face, and feeling like the worst kind of criminal for not being brave enough to hold her.

There are so many things to be afraid of now, so many things she never even had to think about before. If Robin gets hurt, how is she supposed to heal her? How is she supposed to protect her, teach her, keep her safe? If Robin needs something, how is she supposed to provide it with no means of conjuring things? And worse, perhaps the worst of all, what will she do if _Robin_ has magic? What if she accidentally hurts one of them? How can Zelena teach her to control her powers, to use them for good? How can she show her that magic isn’t wicked when she no longer has any?

Heaven help them both, what if Robin turns out just like her mother?

“I can’t,” she chokes. Her stomach seizes, her lungs contract, her whole body feels like it’s closing in on itself. “I can’t. Not like this. I can’t protect her. I can’t take care of her. My god, I can’t do anything.”

“You can,” Belle says, gentle and strong and so beautiful. Zelena wants to cry, she wants to hug her, kiss her, thank her. “You can and you will. But…” She trails off, eyes on Robin. “But it doesn’t have to be right now.”

“I’m sorry,” Zelena mumbles, and she hates apologising, hates the bitter, burning taste it leaves in her mouth. _Weak_ , she hears in her head. _Worthless and so weak._ “You’ve got enough on your plate already. I should ask the Charmings.”

What a sickening thought. Snow White, teaching her daughter to talk to animals, to believe in true love, to _sing_.

Belle won’t have it, though. There’s real warmth in her eyes when she lifts Robin up from her bassinet, and when she cradles her to her chest Zelena feels a little bit of it fill her as well. There is love between them, real and true, and for the life of her Zelena can’t figure out where it comes from or what she did to deserve it. Robin is beautiful, of course, but she’s nothing to Belle. There’s no reason for her to look at either one of them the way she does.

“I don’t mind,” Belle is saying, and Zelena can see that it’s the truth. “She really is the most adorable little thing, and I…”

But then she stops, cutting herself off like she’s ashamed, like maybe there’s something a little bit broken in her too. Zelena has never seen her reduced to silence before, at least not quite like that, and it strikes a note of something tender inside her, a sort-of memory, lost and half-forgotten. _Emotion_ , but one she can’t name, doesn’t really know at all. She can’t describe it, can’t explain what it is; all she knows is that it doesn’t make her feel as empty as the others when it fails to light up her magic.

“What?” she asks, and for the first time since she gave it up she finds herself worrying about someone else’s pain.

Belle shakes her head, looking tortured. “You know what it’s like to have your child ripped out of your arms the moment she’s born…”

 _Ah_. “You’re thinking about Gideon.”

Belle doesn’t confirm it, but she doesn’t have to. Zelena is intimately acquainted with the sorrow she sees in her eyes, the softness in her touch as she strokes Robin’s back. For just a second, she wants to embrace them both, hold them tight and let the warmth and the closeness chase away the empty feeling in her chest, her guts, her bones. She wants to pretend that _this_ is the only thing that matters, two mothers with very different scars, broken in very different ways, coming together in the one place where both their pain takes on the same colour.

Belle sighs, locked up in her own sad thoughts, then nods. “I know it’s not the same,” she says. “Robin’s a beautiful baby, but she’s not my child.”

 _She could be,_ Zelena doesn’t say. _One day._

“I’m sorry,” she says instead.

“It’s not your fault,” Belle says, though she has to know it wasn’t that kind of apology. “I know I’ll never get back the years I lost with Gideon. I do know that. And _this_ … I know it won’t ever be… can’t ever be…” She doesn’t say it, but she doesn’t have to; Zelena has heard it before. “But it helps. Having her there. _A_ child, even if she’s not _my_ child. So don’t… don’t you dare feel bad about this. Any of it.”

Zelena wets her lips. Her stomach lifts just a little; the endless nausea she’s been swallowing down abates ever so slightly. She can’t say why, and it doesn’t last more than a moment or two, but it’s such a relief she finds that she doesn’t care.

“I wish…” she whispers, and doesn’t finish.

Belle’s breath catches in her throat. She looks just as fragile as Zelena feels, and infinitely more beautiful.

“Yeah,” she says. “Me too.”

*

She’s only been gone an hour or so when the front door bursts open.

Zelena is dozing on the couch, fitful and probably still a little bit feverish, when she’s jolted wide-awake by the _crash_ and _slam_ of the door, the rumble of feet on the perfectly tiled floor, the discordant echo of voices in the hallway. She bolts upright, disoriented and scared out of her mind, and of course her first instinct is to reach inside and conjure a fireball, a _whoosh_ and a burst of power to defend herself with. It’s automatic, her reflexes juddering to life even before she’s fully alert, and if the noise alone wasn’t enough to rouse her, the horror that comes when she can’t find a spark definitely is.

She’s empty, she remembers hazily. There’s nothing in her, no power, no _nothing_ , and the terror that grips her as she remembers is more paralysing than any spell or potion, anything she’s ever felt.

 _She’s found me,_ she thinks, with a certainty that turns all her bones to water. _She’s found me and she’s cornered me and now she’s going to skin me alive_. And then, dizzy with relief and horror all at once, _thank god the bookworm took my daughter._

She scrambles off the couch, dishevelled and disoriented. She knows she doesn’t look like much, all pale skin and glassy eyes, breathless and sick and looking like hell, but she doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter what she looks like or how weak she is; the only thing that matters is that she won’t go down on her knees, not for anyone, not now, not ever. If the Black Fairy wants her so badly, then goddammit Zelena is going to make her earn it. And when Regina gets home, when she finds her mutilated corpse pooling blood on the carpet, then goddammit she will know that her sister did not die a coward.

She bares her teeth, reaches blindly for the nearest available object. It’s a cushion, not much of a weapon by all accounts but she doesn’t care. It’ll do. It’ll have to.

“Stay back,” she snarls, fear making her feral. “If you touch me, if you even _think_ about touching me, I swear I will rip out your wings and feed them to—”

“Zelena!”

Zelena blinks and sways on her feet, dazed. Her name hits her with all the force of a blow, and for a moment she sees stars. She’s still holding the stupid cushion, clutching it to her chest, but all of a sudden it feels more like a child’s comforter than a weapon of mass destruction.

“… _Regina_?”

“Who the hell did you think it was?” And yes, it _is_ Regina, leaning against the door frame, just as cool and calm as anything. “Protection spell, remember? No-one gets in without permission.”

“Oh.” Zelena feels ill. “I thought…”

“Yes, I can see that.” The coolness is melting out of her now, eyes widening with more disgusting worry. “I’m sorry we startled you.”

_We?_

“Um. Yeah. Sorry about that.”

_Oh._

And there he is, materialising beside his mother as if by magic. _Henry_ , shuffling his feet and looking sheepish, and for a blinding, hateful second Zelena wants nothing more than to charge across the room and strangle him for scaring her like that.

Her heart is hammering in her chest, still terrified, and it sends little bolts of pain cascading through her, drumming staccato warnings against her ribcage, up and down her arms, in and out of every useless pathetic inch of her. _You did that on purpose, you little brat. You just wanted to see me break down._

“I must have told him a million times,” Regina is saying, “not to slam doors.”

Zelena tries to speak, but all her internal organs are in her mouth. She swallows them down, but it doesn’t really help. Her vision is blurry. She can’t seem to focus on anything.

 _How do I know,_ she thinks again, paranoid and paralysed just like she was before, with Belle and that stupid bloody peephole. _How do I know it’s really you? How do I know he’s really him? If I let go of this cushion, you could rip out my heart and crush it right in front of me, and there wouldn’t be anything I could do to stop you._

“You don’t look so good,” Henry says.

 _Shut up,_ Zelena thinks, but all that comes out is a gurgling, gagging whimper.

“All right. Okay.” Regina’s face is still blurry and indistinct, but even through the haze Zelena can read the guilt in her, the realisation that she screwed up, that her little bundle of joy is the reason her sister is in the throes of a full-blown meltdown. “Henry, go upstairs.”

“But…”

“ _Now_ , Henry.”

No doubt recognising the unspoken threat, he does as he’s told, scampering up the stairs with just as much needless noise as he burst through the door. A little of the irrational spite bleeds out of Zelena as she hears his footsteps receding, but she still can’t bring herself to let go of the stupid useless cushion, the only weapon she has, the only thing that can protect her trembling heart.

Watching her, Regina deflates in a sigh. “Oh, Zelena, I’m sorry.”

“I’m fine,” Zelena manages in a strangled little squeak. “I’m…”

But she’s not, and they both know it.

*

Regina makes her some more of the ginger-flavoured abomination.

“It’ll calm your nerves,” she says.

Zelena glares at the steaming cup, still too shaky to try and meet her sister’s eye. “Yesterday it was for nausea, today it’s for nerves,” she mutters. Her voice sounds as shattered as she feels. “What’ll it do tomorrow? Give me back my magic?”

“Hope springs eternal.” Regina lets out a weary breath. “Did you eat?”

“Oh, yes.” She’s dripping sarcasm, very aware of how important this is to her dear sister. “The bookworm sated my appetite quite nicely.”

Regina makes a disgusted noise. “I’m serious, Zelena.”

Zelena rolls her eyes, then groans when the room spins. She hates feeling like this.

“You know,” she says, “I’d be rather more inclined to eat if you got off my back for five seconds. You’re the one who keeps saying I’ve ‘been through a lot’, whatever the bloody hell that means. Is it really the end of the world if I’m still not feeling well?”

“It depends on _why_ you’re not feeling well,” Regina says quietly.

“Because I ripped out my bloody insides!” She’s not prepared for the way her voice rises and breaks, but she can tell Regina was. “Because I tore out and threw away the only part of me that was ever worth anything.” She’s gasping now, shoulders and chest heaving, and she feels, _oh_ , she feels so much more than just unwell. “I’d say that’s a perfectly respectable reason to lose one’s appetite, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose,” Regina concedes. “If it really is the reason.”

Zelena doesn’t need to ask to know what she’s implying. It’s the same nonsense her dear sister threw at her before she left the house, all that ‘promise me you won’t do anything reckless’ rubbish. How is it possible that they have come so far together and Regina still doesn’t see how strong her sister’s survival instincts are? If a lifetime of abandonment, loneliness, cruelty, and neglect wasn’t enough to destroy her, there’s no way she’ll let the job be finished now by her own idiotic heroism.

“I’m still here,” she says, not exactly kind but perhaps a touch softer than before. “Made it through the night, didn’t I?”

It’s a lot. Regina has to know it too, because she relaxes.

“Yes, I suppose you did.” She leans across the table, finds Zelena’s hand, and squeezes. “But I’m still worried about you.”

“Is that why you brought the brat home with you?” It comes out more like an accusation than she meant, but after such a rude awakening she’d like to think it’s not undeserved. “To frighten the life back into me?”

Regina glares. “Please don’t refer to my son as a ‘brat’.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’d be delighted by the title.” She can’t quite muster a smirk, though, and so the words lose a lot of their levity. “Children do love being pains in the—”

“ _Zelena_.”

“Quite right.” God, it hurts to be snide, hurts to pretend everything is the same as it used to be. The emptiness is like a great gnawing chasm inside of her, growing wider with every breath, and all the forced sarcasm in the world can’t fill it up. “So why _is_ he here, then?”

If she didn’t know better, she’d almost think her dear sister looks uncomfortable. “It’s his home too,” she says simply. “You are aware of that, I take it?”

Zelena bristles. She doesn’t know why the reminder stings, but it does. “Of course,” she mutters. “I just thought…”

But Regina knows exactly what she ‘just thought’, and she’s not having any of it. “Zelena,” she chides, not so gentle any more. “Aren’t we over the jealousy thing by now?”

“Of course we are.” It’s a lie. She’s not, and probably never will be. It’s just too big a part of who she is. “It’s not about that.”

“Are you sure?”

Zelena bites her tongue and doesn’t answer. “It was just a question.”

“Mhm.” Still, she sighs. “He’s here because I want him to be, and because this is his home. And that’s all there is to say about it.”

Well, that’s clearly nonsense. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that there’s something deeper going on here, maybe something a little painful. If it really was as simple as Regina claims, she wouldn’t be so bloody defensive, so desperate to turn the focus away from herself. They’re both so bloody predictable, it’s frankly insulting that she thinks she’s fooling anyone.

Zelena thinks about pressing the issue, wheedling and pushing until her sister gives in and shares the truth, but she doesn’t. As pleasant as it would be to turn the tables for once, to put Regina in the hot seat and make her talk about _her_ feelings, the plain fact is that she doesn’t want to hear about it. Henry’s sudden presence upsets her in a way she doesn’t fully understand, makes her insides squirm even more than they were already.

 _She’s mine,_ she thinks unfairly. _You’ve got another mother, another family, a whole bloody town full of people who love you. She’s all I have._

“He _is_ a brat,” she mutters aloud, and it’s as much of the truth as she’ll ever, ever let out.

“Well, so are you,” Regina says. “So that works out nicely for everyone, doesn’t it?”

Annoyed but unable to deny it, Zelena goes back to scowling into her tea.

It really is the most hideous concoction she’s ever had the misfortune of tasting, nothing like real tea at all. She’s barely even managed a mouthful this time around, though in her defence she wasn’t particularly invested in ‘calming her nerves’ in the first place. She doesn’t want to fall into a false sense of security, doesn’t want to pretend that she’s safe when she knows perfectly well she’s not.

The world won’t stay silent just because she wants it to; calm nerves or not, she knows that it’s only a matter of time before it turns around and finds some fresh new way to hurt or break her. She won’t make the job any easier than it already is by letting her guard down. She’s already helpless, worthless, useless; she’s not going to add ‘stupid’ to the list by pretending that’s not the case. Who the hell would want to be calm at a time like this, anyway?

Giving up, she shoves the stupid teacup at Regina. “You love it so much, _you_ drink it,” she mutters. “Calm your own bloody nerves.”

To her surprise, Regina does take the cup, and she does drink it. _Typical_ , Zelena thinks. As if the decor of this place wasn’t proof enough of her horrendous taste.

After a long, very heavy pause, Regina looks up over the brim of the cup and says, “I just wanted to have him around for a while. Spend some time with him. Is that a crime?”

Well, no, but it was rather obvious.

It means a lot, though, hearing it said, knowing that Regina trusts her not to throw a jealous tantrum. Whether or not Zelena will be able to honour that trust remains to be seen, but at least it’s there. It’s something to hold on to, at least, reason to keep her green-eyed monster on the inside for once.

Besides, she’s a mother too now, and loathe though she is to admit it, she understands. Robin might not be old enough to fall into the ‘noisy teenager’ category just yet, but she’ll be there before any of them know it. Zelena has been separated from her too much already, she really doesn’t need the ‘time goes by so fast’ lecture; she knows exactly how fleeting it is, how much she’s missed already, how much more she’ll be missing by leaving her daughter with Belle for another night.

Of course Regina wants to spend as much time with Henry as she can. That’s just common sense, isn’t it? The final battle might have been postponed by Zelena’s blasted ‘heroic sacrifice’, but it is still coming; there’s no stopping it. Who wouldn’t want to keep their loved ones as close as they possibly can, knowing what’s looming on the horizon?

She takes a deep breath, finds herself wishing she hadn’t given up the tea quite so eagerly. Her mouth is dry and thick, her stomach and her nerves both sour enough that she’d nearly risk the bitter stuff for a chance at settling them a little. She feels sick, and very scared.

“Look,” she starts, with considerable effort. “I’m feeling better—”

“Really? Because you look like death.”

Zelena glares. “I’m _fine_.”

“Of course you are.”

“If you’re quite finished undermining me…” God, she wishes she was better at this, wishes she could sound even a tiny bit convincing. “I was going to say, if you want me to not be underfoot any more… you know, if you and the brat want to ‘bond’ or whatever? I’m all right. I can go home.”

She doesn’t realise how difficult a thing it is to offer until she’s done it, until it’s out and she can’t take it back. All of a sudden her palms are sweaty, her pulse is pounding, and as desperately as she’s trying to make Regina believe that she really will be perfectly fine in that run-down old farmhouse all on her own with no magic and no courage, she’ll never be able to convince herself. She’s beyond terrified, and lonelier than she’s ever been in her life. Which, to be frank, is really saying something.

“He’s not a brat,” Regina says again. “And if you call him one again, you _will_ be going home.” She lets that sit on the table for a beat, a threat with no teeth, then breathes out slowly and presses on. “But if you promise to behave, you don’t have to.”

“You know I can’t promise that.” The dryness comes even harder now than it did before. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

Regina, of course, plows straight through the bravado with all the finesse of a battering ram. She’s leaning across the table now, eyes locked on Zelena’s, and Zelena tries to turn her face away, tries to hide the fear and the pain and the guilty part of her that doesn’t want to share her sister with anyone, but of course it’s pointless. Trying to hide from Regina is like trying to hide from the mirror: she sees her. She always sees her, despite her best efforts, and there is no more escaping her than the darkness in her own heart.

“It’s a big house, Zelena,” she says, and the words are weighted with a thousand meanings or more. “There’s plenty of room for both of you.”

Zelena swallows. Her nerves feel like struck matches, razed and catching fire.

“Is there really?” she asks in a tremulous, pathetic whisper.

Regina doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even stop to think about it.

“Always,” she says.

*


	4. Chapter 4

*

Regina knows it’s a bad idea, but she doesn’t care.

Zelena doesn’t play well with others; that much has been blindingly obvious since she first swooped into town, what feels like decades gone by now. Regina also knows, because her sister is about as subtle as a ton of bricks even on a good day, that Henry is a particularly sore spot for her right now. It would take a far less perceptive person than Regina not to see the way she stiffens every time she hears the boy’s name, the way she sulks and scowls and mutters _‘I’m not a child’_ in what is probably the most childish voice Regina has ever heard.

It also hasn’t escaped her notice that Robin, the other child in both their lives is nowhere to be seen. She won’t ask about it, will let Zelena volunteer that information on her own or keep it for herself, whichever she prefers, but either way she’s not exactly surprised. Zelena can’t even take care of herself right now, and she’s always been scared to death of accidentally causing harm to her daughter.

It’s not exactly an unfounded concern, though Regina has no intention of pointing that out just now, when Zelena is already feeling like the world is breaking under her. They can cross that bridge later, when she’s whole and healthy again, and has faith in herself to stand up without help.

No doubt there’s a connection between all those things, Henry’s presence and Robin’s absence, Zelena’s stubborn and uncharacteristic resistance to being called childish. Zelena is perceptive too, in her own way; she must realise that Regina’s sudden need to be with Henry didn’t spawn in a vacuum, that her own much-hated weakness played a part.

Regina can only imagine how much worse it must make her feel, seeing the lines drawn between herself and Henry, the differences all too obvious even without the obvious comparison. Bad enough, she knows, to be treated like a child in the first place, but for it to be made so clear that she’s not even the one Regina _wants_ … well, no doubt it’s bringing back some less than pleasant memories of her actual childhood.

Frankly, it’s all just one more layer of pain that neither one of them needs, and Regina wishes she could care more than she does. She loves her sister, truly, and she would do almost anything to take away even the smallest little piece of her suffering. But Henry is _Henry_ , and not even shared blood runs as deep as what she feels when she thinks of him. She’s hurting too, and she’ll just have to trust that one day Zelena will be well again, and rational enough to understand her feelings in all of this.

As it is, she’s neither well nor rational enough to do much of anything. Regina suggests they eat dinner together, all three of them, and Zelena turns so pale it’s a wonder she doesn’t pass out.

“Don’t say it,” Regina warns, sensing what’s coming.

Zelena pouts. “But I’m not—”

“I’m serious.” She is, but not entirely. “Don’t you _dare_.”

“—hungry.”

Regina lets her head drop down onto the nearest solid surface and leaves it there. “Zelena, we are _not_ having this conversation again.”

“You started it.” She’s still so horribly pale, though, and that makes it hard to feel anything but pity. “Ugh.”

Regina thinks about pushing this, about making it into a fight if that’s what it takes to drill some common sense and some damn food into her stubborn sister. A part of her wants to, because it’s always been easier for her to power through than try to be patient, easier to hammer on the door than step away and let Zelena come around on her own. It’s not that Regina doesn’t trust her to get there in the end, it’s that she can’t stand to sit idly by when she knows she could be taking action.

She is all too aware of the fact that it’s the wrong way to go about this, though. Zelena is such a prickly, difficult person, with or without her magic: push her too hard and she’ll push back with force, try to step away and she’ll feel rejected and abandoned and lash out anway. Regina has never been especially skilled at navigating the alleys of other people’s emotions, and Zelena’s are considerably more complex than the average Charming’s.

“What do you want?” Regina asks at last, exasperated and genuinely curious.

Zelena stares at her like she just started speaking Martian. “Eh?”

It’s hard to tell whether or not she’s just playing dumb, but Regina gives her the benefit of the doubt.

“Do you want me to just sit back and let you starve?” she presses. “Do you want me to keep trying to get you to eat? Do you want something else entirely?” She spreads her arms, letting just a little of her exasperation show. “I’m not a mind-reader, Zelena, and even if I was, god knows you’re not the easiest person to make sense of.”

Zelena huffs, then concedes the point with a weary sigh. “I don’t know what I want.”

Well, that’s a start. A small one, but a start nonetheless. At the very least, it lets Regina know she’s not the only one who has no idea how to handle this.

“All right,” she says, a little gentler now. “So just sit at the table with us. Eat if you think you can manage it, or don’t if it’s too much work.”

“You won’t try and push me?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.” She tries to smile, but her face feels frozen, stuck in sympathy. “I can brew you some—”

“Oh god, not the abomination again.”

“— _proper_ tea,” Regina finishes, with just a hint of petty triumph. “That tasteless milky crap you seem to love so much.”

For the first time since she lost her magic, Zelena summons a smile.

*

Having placated her sister, at least for the time being, Regina tries to spend some quality time with her son.

He’s in his room, playing some impossible-looking video game on his Box-Station or whatever the cool toys are called nowadays, and it’s hard enough just getting him to look up from the screen for two seconds, much less actually sustain a conversation. Regina wishes she knew when this transformation happened, when and how her wide-eyed little boy became a teenager, when quality time with Mom got subsumed by scribbling in his book of fairy tales and shouting at pixelated characters.

She’s tried maybe a handful of times to engage with this particular interest, but for all the years she’s lived here she still lacks Emma’s patience for this land and its technological ‘marvels’, and she cannot fathom what’s so damn fascinating about the flickering little sprites jumping around on the television screen. There’s not much she envies in Emma any more — their paths have diverged so completely since they first met, they’ve both grown and evolved, and Regina is finally at home in her own skin; she has her own gifts to offer Henry, and they are not made any less by Emma’s — but this modern-world nonsense is one thing the Saviour has that she never will, and it’s hard not to wish that she did.

The older he gets, the more impenetrable Henry’s behaviour becomes, and Regina has no idea how much of that is puberty and how much is a product of the way life has treated him over the last few years. Splitting his time between two mothers is a delicate thing, and all the more so in a world where one or both of them might be swept off into another world or stripped of their memories in any given moment. How much of their time together, all three of them, was lost among all the fairy-tale craziness? How much of a difference would it make if they could all just sit down as a family for five seconds without some catastrophic realm-hopping interruption?

Maybe it would make all the difference in the world. Maybe it wouldn’t change a damn thing. Hell, there’s no reason to assume this is anything more than the product of simmering teenage hormones, completely and utterly normal. But how will she ever truly know?

“Is all that blood and shouting really necessary?” she asks at one point, and immediately wishes she’d kept the thought to herself because if the look on his face is anything to go by she might as well have offered him eye-of-newt for dinner.

“Yes,” he says, turning back to the screen.

“And which one is you?”

He sighs. “The _awesome_ one.”

He’s a little moody, annoyed as he always is at being dragged away from the action, though he keeps most of it in check. He’s civil, at least, which is more than she expected.

Regina wonders how and when she became the boring parent, the one whose life is a ‘drag’ or whatever the hip lingo is these days. Emma has always been more down-to-earth, more modern and cool and exciting, but lately the space between them seems so much wider than it once was.

It’s possible, she supposes, that it’s all in her head, that she’s just imagining all the times Henry bolts out the door with a cheery _“I’m going to Mom’s!”_. But then again, looking back on the last few months, can she really blame him? After all, she’s not exactly been a barrel of fun since they got back from the Underworld. Who could blame a teenager for wanting to spend a bit more of his time with the happy parent, the one with a boyfriend — _fiancé_ — who didn’t stay dead? Who could blame him for leaning a little more eagerly towards playtime with the pirate than healthy home-made pasta?

It’s a beautiful thing, their little family unit; for all the different living spaces and dynamics involved, there’s never really a moment when things feel fractured between them. Still, there’s no question which of his two homes has been more engaging lately, and Regina certainly can’t judge him for it. And, well, it doesn’t help either that Emma would probably know exactly which one of the blood-drenched pixels is the ‘awesome’ one.

Sometimes, being the only sensible adult in a town full of fairy-tale characters is exhausting.

Still, she makes the effort. Blinking, feeling a headache coming on, she tries in vain to follow the action on the screen, the half-dozen little characters storming around swinging swords and staves and other impractical-looking weapons. It doesn’t help very much; she still has no idea why Henry would want to indulge in this sort of suspended-disbelief power fantasy in the first place. One would think a boy with his particular upbringing would have enough drama like this in real life without wanting to emulate it in his fictional worlds as well.

“It’s not very practical,” she says, trying not to sound too judgemental. “I mean, that armour…”

Apparently even that little observation is too much of a distraction, because in the three seconds it takes Henry to think of an reply, one of the characters is hit in the face by what looks like an electrified dragon and collapses in a pool of his own blood.

“ _Mom_!”

“Oh,” Regina says. “So that one was yours?”

“ _Was_ ,” Henry affirms, glaring daggers at her.

Regina sighs. “I didn’t mean to distract you.”

She expects him to glare some more, to cling fast to the grudge until she breaks down and offers to make it up to him, but he does no such thing. Apparently this little growth spurt has taught him a thing or two about patience and forgiveness as well as teenage grunting… or maybe Regina’s just been spending too much time with Zelena, who she’s starting to suspect simply never went through puberty at all.

Either way, Henry seems content to let the matter drop without further incident; he simply rolls his eyes a couple of times, then shrugs, sets the controller aside, and duly forgets the little mishap ever happened.

“Did you need something?” he asks. Then, rather more hopefully than she might like, “Is this about the final battle?”

“No.” It’s both hilarious and tragic that she has to literally forbid her teenage son from attending the ultimate show-down between good and evil. _Again_. “It’s about dinner.”

Well, it’s partly true. Mostly, though, it’s just an excuse; all she really wants is to spend some time with him, to bask in his presence and be close to him for a little while, even if she doesn’t understand a word of his ridiculous virtual-reality hobbies. But for all her shortcomings when it comes to speaking his language, she’s been his mother long enough by now to know not to say such things in front of him. Not unless she wants something far worse than a glare and an eye-roll. She’s been victim of too many _‘ew, gross!’_ shudders to risk another in a moment when she just wants to pretend he’s still her little boy.

“What about it?” he asks, blessedly oblivious to her true motives. If nothing else, she supposes, at least she’s still Storybrooke’s resident bluffing expert. “We having lasagna?”

Honestly, Regina hadn’t put much thought into what they’d have, only that they’d all be having it together. Still, it’s as good a suggestion as any, and one of the few meals she’s mastered without magic.

“Sure,” she says, and can’t quite keep from beaming when he grins. “Made by hand, even.”

Henry’s expression flickers just a little, reading between the lines of that particular statement. She should have known he’d be perceptive; he always is.

“Right,” he says, suddenly sheepish. No doubt he’s still feeling a little guilty about the door-slamming incident. “Because of… uh…”

It’s telling, the way he can’t seem to say Zelena’s name, like he’s not entirely sure what he should call her. There’s no shortage of options, really, ranging from ‘aunt’ to ‘that woman who tried to strangle me one time’, and honestly Regina isn’t sure what she expects or even really wants. She hasn’t given too much thought to the relationship at play here, her son and her sister; Henry is more forgiving than almost anyone in Storybrooke, but Zelena has hurt him just as much as anyone else and it’s no-one’s place but his to decide how he wants to think of her.

She doesn’t push it, simply nods and says, “Something like that.”

Henry grunts. He doesn’t look angry or upset, only thoughtful. That, at least, is a good sign. “She okay?”

And that’s another. Without even realising she’d been tense, Regina feels her whole body relax.

“I hope so,” she says, then sighs because this is thorny and uncomfortable, and it shouldn’t be. “Can I trust you not to say anything at dinner that might upset her?”

“Like what?” He seems genuinely confused, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. Another good sign; three’s the charm. “ _I’m_ not the one who uses the ‘M’ word in every sentence.”

“I don’t use it in every sentence.” She cuffs him playfully on the shoulder, embracing the moment of almost-normal. “Every _other_ sentence, maybe…”

“Uh huh.”

Regina chuckles. “Just… be gentle with her, if you can? That’s all I ask. She’s in a pretty fragile state right now, and I don’t want…”

“I know.” He rolls his eyes again, the sullen melodrama of someone forced to sit through a lecture on a subject they couldn’t care less about. “Relax, Mom. It’ll be fine.”

Regina manages a smile. “Of course it will.”

So why, then, is she so damn nervous all of a sudden?

*

For good reason, as it turns out.

Like most disasters that happen in Storybrooke, it’s all Gold’s fault.

Regina’s phone rings just as they’re about to sit down for dinner, and of course she doesn’t have the good sense to ignore the damn thing. If living in this town has taught her anything, it’s that an unexpected phone call is often the difference between life and death for someone she cares about. She has no interest in hearing anything Gold has to say, but still she can’t quite silence that little voice in her head whispering _‘what if?’_.

So, even as she knows that she’ll regret it, she picks up and hears him out.

It’s not really life-or-death this time, not for anyone. He’s got a theory on waking the Blue Fairy, and wants to run it by her. _“You’re something of an expert in what I have in mind,”_ he says, characteristically cryptic.

Regina, of course, tells him in no uncertain terms that this is not an appropriate time to talk business. As unusual as it is that Rumpelstiltskin would respect her expertise enough to seek it out, it’s nothing that can’t wait until later (or, ideally, the morning), and no doubt he knows it too. He must have learned from Belle that Regina is taking care of her sister, and no doubt he’s heard that Henry’s staying with them tonight as well; he knows perfectly well that family dinners are off-limits for calling in favours like this, and Regina knows him far too well to believe he’s not picked the moment on purpose.

“We’ll discuss it later,” she tells him, in no uncertain terms. “ _I’ll_ call _you_.”

That should be the end of it. But of course nothing is ever that goddamn simple.

Henry has always been too curious for his own good, and he’s been more alert than ever since his Author’s powers started spewing premonitions about the end of his book. He overhears her muttering darkly into the phone, and then of course it’s all he wants to talk about.

“Was it important?” he asks, stubbornly ignoring the plate Regina sets down in front of him. “It sounded important.”

“It wasn’t anything you need to concern yourself with,” she says, shooting him a warning with her eyes. “Eat your dinner.”

“But it sounded like—”

“Dinner, Henry.”

“But—”

“ _Now_.”

On the other side of the table, staring sullenly into a cup of (apparently _proper_ ) tea, Zelena chuckles wanly. “The last time she used that tone, it was on me,” she says, with strained levity. “I must say, it’s not nearly so grating when she’s using it on someone else.”

She doesn’t quite muster a smile, but at least she’s making the effort. A little too much effort, honestly, and it’s just a little too caustic, but she’s trying. Regina is proud of her, so much so that she’s almost willing to overlook the part where, once again, she’s become the butt of the joke. Zelena is still shaky, and she’s eyeing the lasagna like she’s afraid it will leap across the table and force itself down her throat, but she’s not run screaming from the room yet and if she’s still upset about sharing her sister with Henry she’s doing an admirable job of keeping it to herself.

Not that Henry notices any of that. Still fixated on Regina’s telephone secrets, he ignores his aunt entirely. “Was it about the final battle?”

“No,” Regina says, trying in vain to bring some semblance of stability to the table. "It was about my lasagna recipe.”

Zelena makes a strained, strangled-sounding noise. “Good grief,” she croaks. “His taste is even worse than I thought.”

She looks miserable, but Regina can’t keep from shooting back, “People who don’t eat don’t get to have an opinion.”

Henry snickers a little at that, but he won’t be so easily deterred. Once he’s got his eye on something it’s all that he can see, and no amount of deflection or small-talk is going to steer him away from it now. Not that Regina really expected it to. He is his mother’s son, after all. Both of them, more’s the pity. And, well, it’s no secret that he’s taking the final battle more than a little personally since his Author’s powers started going haywire; not for the first time, she wonders if he feels responsible for seeing it through, if he’s somehow convinced himself it’s his fault. God, she hopes not.

“But what was it _really_?” he’s whining, poking half-heartedly at his food. “Don’t you think we should all be in the loop?”

“There is no ‘loop’,” Regina tells him. She’s watching Zelena out of the corner of her eye, and she doesn’t miss the way she turns a few shades paler; apparently Henry’s not the only one taking this a little too much to heart. “And even if there was, you wouldn’t be in it. There are height restrictions. And _age_ restrictions, for that matter.”

“That’s crap,” he cries, blurting it out before common sense can close his mouth. Regina shoots him a warning look, but he’s too worked up to be quieted now. “I’m not a kid any more. You can’t protect me forever. And especially not from _this_.”

Regina sighs. So much for a nice quiet dinner with her sister and her son. What an idiot she was, believing even for a second that such a thing would ever happen under her roof. When she does get around to calling Gold back, she will make sure he pays for this.

“It’s my job to protect you,” she says to Henry, as patiently as she can manage. “Or to try, at least, whether I succeed or not. That’s what being a mother means.”

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” Zelena adds, very quietly. The teacup is shaking in her hand; Regina’s heart gives a little tremor too. “ _Much_ older, if you’re lucky.”

She’s not really talking to Henry, Regina suspects, but he turns to look at her anyway, eyes narrowing shrewdly, like he thinks he’s found himself an ally. Regina opens her mouth to warn him, to make him see that he’s wasting his breath if he thinks his aunt is in any position to help him fight this particular battle, but the words don’t come fast enough. He’s always been that little bit quicker than her.

“You should be on my side,” he says to Zelena, and _oh_ , he really thinks he’s doing her a favour, he really thinks this is what she wants to hear. “Aren’t you sick of it too?”

“Not particularly,” Zelena says.

She’s getting quieter and quieter, but Henry doesn’t notice. He’s too wrapped up in his own battle, the one against all the imaginary injustices of not being old enough to go to war.

“You gotta be,” he presses, and Regina can see exactly where this is heading, but there’s nothing she can do to derail this train now that it’s in motion. “I mean, she’s treating us both like we’re useless. Like we’re _children._ ”

And there it is, the word striking the table like a thunderbolt, and Regina knows, she _knows_ that it’s going to hurt, but she doesn’t realise how much.

The noise Zelena makes now is worse than just strangled; she sounds and looks like she’s about to keel over right in front of them. She doesn’t, thankfully, but it’s clearly a very close thing, and the look on Henry’s face as he sees the colour draining out of hers is a terrible, heartbreaking sight.

 _What did I do,_ he’s asking with his eyes. _What did I say?_

For a split-second that lasts forever, Regina has no idea which one of them she should go to. Henry is her first instinct, of course, just like he always is; he’s wide-eyed and red-faced, mouth opening and closing like he wants to apologise but doesn’t really know what for. She’s desperate to throw her arms around him, tell him that it’s not his fault, that Zelena is complicated, has always been complicated, that this is not about him at all. She wants to comfort him, reassure him, talk to him like the adult he so wants to be… only then there’s _Zelena_ , sitting there on the other side of the table looking like she’s just been punched in the stomach, and the sight of her makes Regina’s heart just burst.

 _I’m not a child,_ she hears in her head, echoing over and over. She remembers the look on Zelena’s face when she said it, remembers looking at her with disdain, expecting anger and defensiveness but instead finding only fear and pain.

She doesn’t understand. Now, just like then, she doesn’t know why it cuts the way it does, why the thought of being like Henry, of being a _child_ , is so sickening to her. She doesn’t understand anything about this, but then when has she ever? When has anything Zelena feels or thinks or does ever made any sense to anyone but Zelena?

Regina feels trapped, caught between her son and her sister, the two people she would give anything to protect and comfort, but there’s not a damn thing she can do for either of them.

It’s Zelena who makes the decision for her, shattering the moment with her usual melodrama. She lurches to her feet, and suddenly all the colour she’s lost is rushing back to her face in a flood; she looks ill, halfway to delirium, and her eyes are as wide as saucers.

Feeling like she’s moving through water, Regina reaches for her hand.

“It’s fine,” Zelena says, pulling away before they can touch. She’s swallowing, blinking, swaying on her feet. “I wasn’t hungry anyway.”

She’s gone, then, rushing out the door so fast that Regina doesn’t see her go. For a brief, heartbreaking moment, she almost forgets that she’s lost the ability to disappear.

“Dammit,” she mutters. She feels like the wind’s been knocked out of her. “ _Dammit_.”

To his credit, Henry looks about as horrified as she feels. He really did think he was speaking to Zelena’s pride, truly believed he was trying to connect to her. It’s an honest mistake, and the look on his face drains away everything in Regina’s heart but the love, the part of her that wants so much to cherish this time with him, the part of her that brought him home with her this afternoon, that couldn’t bear to be apart from him for even a moment longer.

“What did I say?” he’s asking, finding his voice at last now that Zelena is gone. “What did I _do_?”

“Nothing,” Regina says, and she can’t help herself, she throws herself into his personal space and pulls him into a hug. “You didn’t do anything wrong, I promise. She’s just very sensitive right now.”

She’s one breath away from apologising, from telling him that she’s the one who’s sorry, not just for this but for everything, even the few things she did right, and the only thing that stops her is the fact that he does it first.

“I didn’t mean to,” he’s saying. “I didn’t… it’s not like I even said the ‘M’ word. I just…”

“It’s all right, Henry.”

“I just figured she’d _get_ it. You know?”

Regina stares at the door, blinking rapidly; the tears make it blur and dance. It’s only a fraction less painful than looking at Henry’s face, than seeing the guilt and pain and knowing, irrationally, that she’s in part responsible.

“She does get it,” she says softly. “I think that’s the problem.”

*

She finds Zelena in the master bedroom.

She’s sitting on the edge of Regina’s bed, knees drawn up to her chest, staring vacantly at a framed picture of Henry. It’s one of Regina’s favourites, a moment from his early childhood when he was all smiles, when she was the only person in his world, before story books or Emma, before anything at all. He doesn’t even remember those days any more, and sometimes in her darker moments Regina forgets them too.

She doesn’t enter the room. Hovering in the doorway, feeling almost like a guest in her own home, she clears her throat and waits for an invitation.

Zelena doesn’t offer one, but she does speak. “I was wrong,” she murmurs, reflective, as though to herself. “He’s not a brat.”

“I know he’s not,” Regina says, but doesn’t press the issue. This is as close to remorse as her sister has ever ventured, and now is not the time to grab for more. “Can I come in?”

Zelena nods. “Sorry for ruining dinner.”

Regina crosses to the bed, moving as slowly as she can, respectful of Zelena’s need for boundaries and space. She sits down on the bed too, picking her spot carefully, leaving maybe a foot’s worth of space between them. Zelena doesn’t acknowledge her, but there’s the hint of a slump to her shoulders, not quite calm but a little less tension. It’s as much as Regina can hope for, at least for now.

She leans in a little, studying the picture she knows so well, running her fingertips along the frame, remembering the moments, the smiles, the years she thought would last forever. She lets herself drown in it, if only for a short while, the simpler time when she was too corrupt, too empty to care if anything she did was right.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” she says to Zelena. “You’d be amazed at how many home-cooked meals ended up wasted or thrown out after one of his temper tantrums.”

Zelena tries to chuckle, but all that comes out is a wheezing gasp. “So maybe a _bit_ of a brat, then?”

“Just a little bit.”

She plucks the picture out of Zelena’s hands, holds it tenderly in her own for a moment or two, then places it back on the nightstand where it belongs. It doesn’t strike her until it’s back there, safe and sound, that she handled that silly old photograph with more reverence and care than she’s ever shown the woman sitting next to her. Even now, worried and sincere and just a little bit over-protective, there’s still so much distance between them.

“I’ll apologise to him later,” Zelena says. She sounds like she’s been crying, but her eyes and her face are dry. “I promise.”

“I’m sure he’ll try to do the same.” Regina shuffles just an inch or two closer, lets the backs of her fingers brush against Zelena’s hand. Zelena flinches a little, but doesn’t pull away. “Do you want to tell me what that was all about?”

Zelena chews on her lip for a while, turning the question over in her head. Regina watches her, biding her time, and doesn’t push. She has to be very gentle, she knows, has to watch for the signs to pull back and let the issue drop. Zelena is fragile like a glass window; when she shatters, her shards are sharp.

“I don’t know,” she answers at last. “I don’t know what it was about.”

It may or may not be true, but the look on her face says that she believes it. Regina tries to be sympathetic, to understand that sometimes there is no simple answer, but it’s not as easy as it might once have been.

It’s been too long since she felt the way Zelena seems to feel right now, separate and disconnected from her own body. The last time she felt anything close to this was in the hours after she pulled out the Evil Queen, when she had to suddenly adjust to losing a part of herself. It’s not as easy as she’d like, though, drawing on her own experiences to try and connect with her sister’s, reaching inside and trying, trying, _trying_ to remember how it felt to not be completely herself.

“All right,” she says, slow and careful, as much for her own sake as Zelena’s. “So break it down, then. You don’t want to be treated like a child. Why?” She tries to look wry, but she has a sneaking suspicion it doesn’t work. “It’s not like you’ve ever been ashamed of your childishness before.”

“It was different then,” Zelena says.

Well, that much is obvious. Before, she was almost proud of it. Now, it invokes a meltdown. Regina counts to ten, then says, “So what changed?”

Zelena gives her a tight look. “You know what changed.”

True enough, but Regina wants to hear it said, wants the words brought to life. “Your magic.”

“It’s not…” She trails off, shaking her head. Regina can feel the tremors in her hand, and she can’t quite figure out whether she’s trying to make a fireball or trying not to make a fist. “Ugh, I don’t know. It’s complicated. You look at me now like I’m this pathetic little thing, this stupid bloody infant who needs to be protected and taken care of. It’s not…” She sighs. “Child _like_ and child _ish_. They’re not really the same thing at all, are they?”

Regina thinks she can see the difference. “You’d think the latter one would be worse,” she says. “I mean, it’s actually meant to be an insult.”

“But that’s what makes it easier!” Zelena cries, then blinks, as though surprised by her own outburst. “When it’s an insult, it’s just you trying to get under my skin. And I don’t care about that. Never have, never will. I don’t care if you think I’m childish, I don’t care if you think I’m a…”

Regina doesn’t bother trying to hide her smile. “A brat?”

“A brat, yes.” She doesn’t quite muster the wry humour the moment calls for, but the corners of her mouth soften just a bit. Regina takes it as a victory, if only a small one. “I don’t care if you think I’m petulant or moody or… hell, I don’t know. Whatever children are. The only experience I have is Robin, and she’s not even got teeth.”

Regina chuckles. “I’m sure she’ll be growing up and driving you crazy in no time,” she says, and it’s only when Zelena tenses that she realises that might not be the most comforting thing right now. She silently curses herself, then shifts her hand a little higher, lets it rest on Zelena’s arm. “She _will_ , Zelena. This helplessness, this vulnerability you’re feeling… it will pass. You’ll find your feet again, with yourself and with Robin. She won’t even remember the few days she lived with Belle.”

Zelena doesn’t say _‘but I will’_ , though Regina can tell she’s thinking it. And why not? No doubt she herself would feel exactly the same way if their positions were reversed, if on the eve of the final battle she found herself powerless to protect Henry, to help Emma, even to stand arm-in-arm with the damn Charmings.

There’s a special kind of power that comes with protecting the people you love. It took Regina far too long to learn it, to find the peace it brings, but when she did it transformed her whole world. That Zelena had that power stripped from her just as she was finally starting to learn it too is a terrible cut, perhaps the cruelest one of all. Heaven knows she’s had a turbulent journey, and Regina would not wish this loss on anyone.

“I don’t know,” Zelena says again. “It’s just different. When you call me names, childish or stubborn or whatever you like… that’s just how we communicate, you know? It’s just the way things are between us. Maybe the way they have to be. Because everything is so…”

Regina sighs. “…complicated.”

“Complicated. And I… please. You know I don’t care what ridiculous little insults you sling at me. But _this_ …” She swallows, then touches her throat like she’s searching for her own pulse. “It’s not just stupid sister stuff this time, is it? It’s not about you giving me a hard time or me giving you one or whatever. You’re not insulting me any more, you’re _pitying_ me, and that’s…”

“It’s not pity, Zelena. It’s compassion.”

“Whatever it is.” Her voice breaks. “It’s _real_. That’s the difference. I am helpless and vulnerable and weak. I’m all those things, all those awful stupid _childlike_ things. I am like a child, exactly like a bloody child. And I hate that, I hate it, I hate…”

She trails off. Regina can see the pain at play in her and stumbles in her rush to ease it.

“It’s all right,” she says. “Zelena, no-one is judging you for being any of those things. Not for being weak, not for being vulnerable or helpless, and definitely not for being a little childlike. After what you sacrificed, it’s perfectly natural.”

Zelena shakes her head, mouthing a silent _‘you don’t understand’_. Regina wishes she did, wishes there was something she could do, a spell or potion she could use to make this easier on them both. Zelena might not have magic any more but Regina has plenty to spare, and there’s no excuse for the way she suddenly feels helpless too, the way she feels like everything she tries is wasted and pointless.

Moving carefully, Zelena leans across the bed and picks up Henry’s picture again. Regina doesn’t stop her, though she can’t quite stifle the possessive instinct that flickers in her chest. _That’s mine, he’s mine, don’t touch things that aren’t yours_. Apparently Zelena isn’t the only one with a jealous streak; who knew?

“Look at him,” she’s saying. Regina shakes off her momentary pettiness, turns instead to take in the breathless awe on her sister’s face. “He was so _happy_.”

“I hope so,” Regina says. Her heart aches. “For a while, at least, I hope he was happy with me.”

Zelena stares at the photograph for a long, long time. Then, just when Regina thinks that’s the end of this quiet little bonding moment, she takes a deep breath and whispers, “I wasn’t.”

Regina frowns. “Happy with me?”

“Happy at all,” Zelena says. Her voice is high, quavering. “When I was a child. A proper one, I mean, not… not like this.”

 _Ah_. Regina processes this, takes a deep, steadying breath.

“Well,” she says, “that’s something we have in common.”

Zelena nods a little, then wets her lips. Her thumb trembles against the edge of the photograph, catching on the frame. Regina takes it back again, but this time she doesn’t put it away. She sets it down in her lap, a tether to a quieter, long-gone time, and lets Henry’s smiling face give her strength. The person she’s become is worth a thousand of the person she was then, but the memories are as precious as anything she’s earned since. She waits, holding her breath, with her eyes locked on her son’s and her hand gripping her sister’s.

Finally, sounding lost and small, Zelena says, “It was the only friend I had.”

Regina doesn’t need to ask, but she does anyway. “Your magic?”

“Ridiculous, isn’t it? I mean, it was the reason my life was so bloody miserable in the first place. The reason my father hated me, the reason he never wanted me, the reason he…” She cuts herself off, looking haunted, and _oh_ , Regina is so very familiar with this kind of pain. “Probably wouldn’t have turned out the way I did if he had. If he’d cared. If he’d wanted me. If anyone had.”

“I know,” Regina whispers, and she does, oh, she does, _she does_.

Zelena nods, swallows hard, keeps going. “But they didn’t. Him and everyone else. Bloody _magic_. They all thought it was a curse, and maybe it was. But it was there and it was warm and it was…” She chokes. Regina holds her breath, expecting tears, but none come. Not from either of them. “It was _mine_. The only thing in my wretched, miserable life that was.”

Regina understands this too, just a little. “The only friend you had.”

“The only anything.” She tries to laugh, but it’s bitter and upset and doesn’t sound like any laugh Regina has ever heard. “And here we are, a million years and a thousand realms later, and I’m the same wretched, miserable little girl all over again. Only now I’ve lost the one thing that made it all tolerable.”

“Oh, but it’s different now,” Regina reminds her. “You have other things, other friends, a family. You have love in your life, Zelena, and you’re not alone any more.”

“I know that.” But knowing is not the same thing as believing; who better to understand that than the one-time Evil Queen? “And I know I shouldn’t care. It took me long enough to learn that the past doesn’t matter, you’d think I’d have the strength of mind to put it into practice.”

Regina chuckles. “Sometimes things aren’t quite that simple.”

“You’re telling me.” She breathes in sharply, then lets it out a little too slow, like she’s bracing herself. “Do you think it would have changed anything? If I’d lost it back then instead of now? Do you think…” Her voice catches again, then her lashes flutter, and then she’s crying, finally, _finally_ crying, and Regina is so painfully proud of her. “Do you think someone would have wanted me then?”

“I don’t know.” Regina blinks, struggles hard to keep from joining Zelena in her tears. “But it doesn’t matter. You’re wanted _now_. You’re loved _now_. For once in your life, let what you have be enough.”

Zelena looks down at the photo of Henry. A tear splashes onto his cheek, but neither one of them move to wipe it away.

“It is.” She sighs shakily. “I just… I hate remembering. I hate feeling the way I did back then. Like a bloody child. It’s not just being weak or vulnerable or whatever else. You know? It’s being _scared_.”

Oh, yes, Regina certainly does know that. How terribly, how completely she knows it. All children are afraid of the beasts under the bed, but for little girls like them those monsters were terribly real. They can grow up, can grow and change and evolve, maybe even make peace with themselves and what they went through, all the cruel turns their lives took, all the terrible ways they were twisted and tainted, but they’ll never be able to pull out the claws lodged beneath their skin. No amount of ‘there there’ or ‘it’s all right’ will ever make those memories less, not for either one of them.

“I can’t take that away,” Regina says, a confession that burns through both their lives. “God, I wish I could. But I can’t.” They’re both shaking now. Zelena has her face pressed against Regina’s neck, and Regina is holding her so tightly she can feel her ribs through her clothes. It’s hard to know at this point which tears come from whose pain. “All I can do is remind you that it’s over. You might feel like a child again, Zelena, but you’re not _that_ child. Not any more.”

 _None of us are,_ she adds silently. _Not you, not me, not Henry._

They stay there for a long, long time, holding each other, both crying and both unable to stop. Regina thinks of Henry waiting downstairs, oblivious to all this, and again she wishes that she could protect him forever. Not just from the final battle, the Black Fairy and Gideon and whatever other dangerous forces are lurking around the next corner, but from _this_ , the quiet moments where nothing exists but old wounds and the scars that never, ever heal.

He doesn’t understand. If she does her job right, he never will.

Finally, after what feels like a lifetime and a heartbeat all at once, Zelena lifts her head. Her eyes are rimmed with red, her face blotchy; she looks exhausted, and more awake than Regina has ever seen her.

“Can I…” Her voice rasps; she clears her throat and tries again. “Can I stay in here tonight?”

It’s not such a strange request, really, not with the past hanging so heavily over them both. Regina thinks back to Henry’s early childhood, to the way he used to crawl under the covers when he woke in the middle of the night, the way he would seek out her arms like they were the only thing in the world that could keep him safe. Before it all went wrong, before he grew up too fast and learned too much, before the time when she was his enemy she was his mother, and she was his sanctuary.

She thinks of Snow White, too, and the way she used to do the same thing all those years ago in the Enchanted Forest. It made Regina feel bitter at the time, newly married and grieving and gorged on resentment, but sharing a bed with her bratty step-daughter meant not having to share it with her new husband, and so she opened her arms and imagined crushing her with them. She wonders if the Snow she knows now, her friend, realises what dark dreams made her loving stepmother smile in her sleep.

For good or for ill, Regina is no stranger to holding members of her family through fear and pain and loss. But how strange, and how terribly sad, that this will be the first time she does it with someone who actually shares her blood.

“Of course you can stay in here,” she says to Zelena. “There’s no shortage of space.”

 _And no shortage, either,_ she thinks, _of people in need of comfort._

*


	5. Chapter 5

*

Zelena actually gets a little sleep that night.

Not much, and it’s still restless and full of bad dreams, but anything at all is an improvement over the hellish limbo she’s been stuck in since she gave up her magic. Regina’s presence is like warmth and home, the magic so close to the surface of her skin that Zelena can almost feel it under her own when they’re close, a ripple that covers her like a blanket. It’s like a lullaby, like being rocked or sung to sleep as a small child, like so many things she never had before.

She lets herself imagine Regina is doing it on purpose, sharing her power as best she can, but it’s hard to know for sure. Magic can’t be passed around like a favourite toy, and maybe Regina isn’t even aware of what she’s doing, but still somehow it feels like a gift. The sensation sparks and skitters over her skin, electricity pricking up and down her arms, across her belly, into her nerves and her bones… it’s so close to real, so close to how she remembers it, an outside echo of the life that once breathed in her. It tricks her body into believing hers is still there, and slowly, oh so very slowly, it lulls her into sleep.

She wakes a few times, of course, choked by nightmares or unwanted memories, sweating and strangling screams or sobs. Regina wakes too, but just halfway, just enough to touch her arm or her stomach or the side of her neck, just enough to spread the shimmering magic-blanket over her skin until she stills and settles. Catching her breath in the cold dark, Zelena wonders how long it will be before this ends, how long before she, like a newborn, like her daughter, can sleep through the night.

“It’ll get easier,” Regina murmurs, already drifting off again. “I promise.”

The flicker of magic dies under her hand as she falls back to sleep, but Zelena keeps the contact anyway, lets the weight of Regina’s arm and the lines on her palm tether her to the bed, to the sheets.

“I know it will,” she says, to no-one.

Only once, Regina wakes first. She doesn’t cry out like Zelena does — even now, even half-asleep, she’s the one with all the control — but there’s a groan lodged in her throat, the hint of a whimper stuttering on her lips, and Zelena has dreamed more than enough terrible things herself to know what sparked them.

“Regina,” she says, fearful and helpless. “You’re dreaming.”

Regina doesn’t say anything. But she does grow a little stiller, and the whimper dies before it can break to the surface, before it can become a scream or a sob, one of the childish little noises that Zelena makes. She settles, if only a little, as though calmed by her sister’s voice; her fingers grow still where they splay across Zelena’s stomach, strong and warm and…

…and maybe, Zelena thinks, maybe she’s not the only one who needed company tonight, maybe she’s not the only one with night terrors and a gaping, jagged hole inside of her.

She falls asleep not long after that, and stays that way until morning.

*

The first thing she notices when she wakes is the sunshine.

It’s dazzling, impossibly bright, and for a groggy, disoriented moment all she can think is, _at least the bloody snow will melt_. It’s a ridiculous thought, of course, but it consumes her completely, leaves her suspected in memories of the moment she almost left all this behind. Her creaking little farmhouse, the snow all around, Robin heavy in her arms, Regina’s voice echoing in her head, so cold and empty and spiteful. _“Go back to Oz,”_ she said, and if Zelena closes her eyes, she can still feel the dark crystal in her hand, can still taste the tears freezing on her cheeks, can still see visions of her former home, _Oz_ , burning themselves onto her mind like neon green brands. She was so close to doing as she was told, so close to fleeing this godforsaken world with her magic intact, so close to…

But no. She stayed, and she sacrificed, and now the sun is going to melt all that blasted snow and all of a sudden she doesn’t care at all.

The second thing she notices, and it chases away the first thing with all the efficiency of a punch to the gut, is that she’s alone. Regina, who held her and soothed her and — once, just once — let her comfort her in return, is _gone_.

She bolts upright, panic and the sudden motion making her stomach churn, and before she can stop herself, before she realises it’s foolish and melodramatic, she hears her voice screeching her sister’s name.

Well, of course Regina comes running. Zelena is nothing if not an expert in making herself heard through walls and realms.

“I’m here!” She’s dishevelled and harried, scrambling into a robe, clearly fresh out of the shower, and she looks about as blindsided as Zelena feels. “My god, what on Earth is the matter?”

Zelena’s mouth and throat are suddenly very dry. She has never felt quite so stupid in her life. “I, um…”

Apparently that’s all Regina needs to hear. Just like always, she only has to look at Zelena’s face to figure out the whole ridiculous mess, the senseless panic that comes with waking up alone, the thousands upon thousands of dreadful visions that filled her head, the shriek clawing its way out of her mouth even as she knew she was being silly. Apparently Regina sees and understands it all, because she sits herself down on the edge of the bed without another word, and takes Zelena gently by the hand.

“I’m here,” she says again, slower and with meaning. “I was just in the shower.”

“Of course you were.” Her voice is weaker than water; she wants to weep. “I mean, I knew that. I was just testing your hearing. I was just checking, I was just…”

But it’s pointless. Regina sees right through it, and her sigh is the worst kind of judgement. “Zelena.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” She sounds angry, she sounds hurt, she sounds like an idiot. “I know it was stupid. I know it was dramatic and childish and god knows what else. I know. I just…” If she didn’t think it would make Regina pull away from her, she would throw up her hands in frustration. “It was a reflex. Just a stupid bloody reflex. I mean, I don’t even care where you are or what you—”

“ _Zelena_.”

It’s not the sound of her name that cuts her off, or the fact that Regina’s looking at her like it matters, like it’s not stupid, maybe like _she’s_ not stupid. It’s not the fact that she’s sitting here with her, patient and tender and about a thousand things that villains like them should never be, or that she’s looking her in the eye or holding her hand or talking to her like she really truly cares what she has to say for herself. None of those are what get to her.

But _oh_ , the way Regina’s voice cracks as well, even if it’s only slightly, the way she sounds almost as lost and small and silly as Zelena feels, the way she looks, for the first time in all the messy mixed-up years they’ve known each other, like maybe she really does know her, really does understand her, maybe really loves her too… _those_ are the things that leave her wrecked.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles again, and that’s it, that’s all she has.

Regina has more, of course. She always does. Isn’t that what started all this in the first place? How sadly fitting, Zelena thinks, that all of a sudden it’s a source of solace instead of envy.

So often lately, in the short while since she grew herself a conscience, she’s found herself wondering just how different things would have turned out if she’d materialised in front of Regina all those years ago instead of Rumpelstiltskin. If she’d met her sister before her heart was poisoned against her, before the jealousy had a chance to dig its claws in, where would they be now? Would they have saved each other? Would they have wanted to?

“ _I’m_ sorry,” Regina is saying, and that’s ridiculous, it’s absurd, it makes no bloody sense. “I should have waited until you woke up, but I didn’t want to disturb you. It took you so long to fall asleep, and you were so peaceful when you finally got there. I wanted you to get as much sleep as you could, while you could.” She forces a smile, then ducks her head to hide the cracks inside it. “You have to keep your strength up somehow. Especially since you’ll probably refuse to eat breakfast again…”

Zelena pouts, more to mask the unwanted gurgling in her stomach than out of any real annoyance. It’s been so long since she ate anything of substance she can no longer tell whether she’s actually nauseous or whether her stomach is just so empty it feels that way.

“You’re my sister,” she says, too brittle. “Not my mother.”

“Believe me,” Regina sighs, “you wouldn’t want me to be.”

Zelena doesn’t have an answer to that, and so she opts to stay quiet. She’s not proud of the way she clings to her sister, trembling like a baby, like a newly-hatched chick without feathers; she needs the contact, the comfort, but what a terrible cost to be seen like this.

 _You dragged her out of the bloody shower,_ her rational brain is shouting at her, ashamed and desperate at the same time. _For the love of anything, just let her go back to it in peace_.

But she doesn’t. She knows her grip must be too tight, her nails digging in, sharp and badly-clipped like the rest of her, but she can’t seem to let go.

“I’m here,” Regina says again. Her voice is shaking, her arms are shaking around Zelena’s shoulders, her whole body is shaking, and _no no no_ , this is all Zelena’s fault, it’s her fault Regina is shaking. “I’m right here.”

She buries her face in Regina’s shoulder, keeps it hidden. “Why does everything always feel worse in the morning?”

“I don’t know,” Regina says. She’s stroking Zelena’s back, her fingers catching every now and then in the morning-mussed tangle of her hair. “But for what it’s worth, it was the same way for me as well. During the curse, I mean. When I was the one without my powers, when I was alone.”

“You had Henry,” Zelena mumbles dizzily.

“I didn’t always,” Regina reminds her. “Not for a very, very long time, in fact. And before I had him…” She trails off, shaking her head. “You can’t imagine the loneliness. The emptiness.”

Zelena laughs. “ _I_ can’t imagine emptiness? _Loneliness_? Bloody hell, have you not been listening these past few years?”

“And maybe if you’d shown up sooner…”

She trails off, though, because they both know that’s unfair. They both know who is really responsible for the years and memories stolen from them, the lost chances, the time wasted on petty vendettas and senseless hatred. It’s taken them both a lifetime to make peace with it, the one thing — the one _person_ — they have in common, their mother, and they both know how tragic it would be to fall back down that hole after so much growth. Cora, _Mother_ , is gone now; no amount of regret thrown in any direction will ever bring her back. The least they can do is forgive her for the sins that tore them apart, as the rest of the world has forgiven them for theirs.

“It’s over,” Regina finishes, soft and low, and Zelena can tell that she’s saying it for both their sakes. It’s hard to tell which of the two of them has more unhealed wounds. “It’s over. What’s done is done, for both of us.”

 _Easy for you to say,_ Zelena thinks. _Your stupid mistakes aren’t still carving holes out of your belly_.

Thinking of it makes her choke a little, feeling it swell again inside her, the gnawing, hollow place where her magic used to be.

“I feel sick,” she says, because it’s the only truth that can be made into words.

“I know you do.” Regina sighs, shakes her head as though in surrender. “Look. I won’t push you this time, okay? If you don’t want to eat breakfast, you don’t have to. I promise not to say a word about it.”

 _It hurts to try,_ Zelena doesn’t say. _My throat, my stomach, all of me. It hurts so much to try._

She doesn’t say it because she doesn’t want to hear another empty, meaningless ‘I know’, doesn’t want to force Regina to find some other hollow placation, some other substanceless way of pretending to understand the thing they both know she never will. She doesn’t want to hear any of that, and she doesn’t want to put Regina through the pain of having to say it.

So, instead, she just holds her close, buries her face in her neck, and says, “Thank you.”

*

Breakfast, or the lack of it, is a blessedly quiet event.

Henry sulks, scowls, and pouts his way through a plate of pancakes big enough to feed three kingdoms. Zelena sulks, scowls, and pouts her way through the world’s smallest cup of (proper) tea. Regina, being the only functioning adult in all Storybrooke, scowls but does not sulk or pout. Though if the look on her face is anything to go by, she’s rather more tempted than she’ll ever admit.

It’s as close to peace as they’ve seen in a good long while, and it lasts approximately two hours. Then, entirely too soon, there’s a knock on the door, a too-familiar _“dearie”_ , and that’s the last they see of peace and quiet.

After his hushed conversation with Regina last night, Zelena supposes it was only a matter of time before the Dark One made a personal appearance, but she doesn’t expect the terror that crashes over her at the sight of him standing there in the flesh.

Their relationship, if it can be called that, has always been tempestuous. Zelena will be the first to admit that Rumple has more than a few good reasons to want her dead, but until now she never much cared what he thought or wanted from her. She was the one with the power, after all; so long as they stayed out of each other’s way, he could choke on his resentments for all the difference it made to her. Cold, maybe, but if she cried over every bottle of milk she’s ever spilled she’d be doing nothing else for the rest of her days.

At worst, she and Rumple were equals. At best… well, there aren’t very many who can claim to have kept the Dark One on a leash and lived to tell about it. Zelena is slowly, oh so very slowly, learning the difference between good and bad, but that one is a sticking point. Regina would tell her to sit in the corner if she admitted the fact aloud, but old habits die hard and yes, that wicked part of her is still just a little bit proud of itself.

Well. It _was_. Back when she knew he couldn’t actually hurt her. Now, though…

Now, the shoe is on the other foot, and it doesn’t fit nearly so comfortably any more. She has no idea whether the little deal they made in New York still holds true, whether draining her magic also took away her protection from him. From the look on his face she can tell that he doesn’t know either, but if the gleam in in his eye is any indication he’s dearly looking forward to finding out.

Zelena swallows hard, refuses to let the fear show on her face. She ducks behind Regina, using her sister as a human shield, and tries to look like she has everything completely under control.

It’s not exactly convincing, not to anyone. Even Regina can feel the tension growing thick in the room, and she knows the story as well as anyone. She was there, after all, when Gold sent the Evil Queen to kill her dear sister on his behalf. She knows exactly what their former mentor is capable of, and she knows as well as anyone else in this town exactly why he might want his one-time tormentor dead. On another day, in another version of the universe, she might have felt the same way herself. After all, Gold is far from the only person Zelena did unspeakable things to.

Today isn’t another day, though, and this world has changed too much for Regina to add her resentments to the pile; they are done with that, the two of them, and Regina doesn’t hesitate for even a second. She stands in front of her sister, protects her as best she can, and tries to keep Gold’s attention on herself.

“Impatient, aren’t you?” she quips. “I was going to call back eventually.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t sit by the phone waiting,” he says dryly.

Regina rolls her eyes, cocks her head at Henry. “Well, it’s been a little hectic around here.”

Gold doesn’t even glance at his grandson. His eyes are on Zelena, little lasers locked on to a sitting target. “Mm,” he says, with relish. “Yes, things do look a little _troubled_ , don’t they?”

Zelena wills herself not to tremble. _I’m not afraid of you,_ she reminds herself. _I’ve never been afraid of you, I’m not afraid, I’ll never be afraid, I’m not…_

“Out with it,” Regina says. Her fingers find Zelena’s arm and dig in, not to restrain but to support. _I’m here,_ she doesn’t say. “We don’t have all day.”

Gold doesn’t stop staring at Zelena. His eyes bore holes into her, keen and quick like the dagger she once used to cage him. Fitting, if uncomfortable.

“I’d sooner not discuss my business in front of the vermin,” he says.

Well, she deserves that. And if tacky little insults are the worst he’s going to throw at her today, she’ll consider herself very lucky indeed.

Regina sighs, clearly done with everyone else’s histrionics, but she doesn’t argue or complain. No doubt she’s just glad for the excuse to separate the two of them before blood gets spilled in front of her precious Henry. Naturally, Zelena doesn’t complain either. Given that it would probably be her blood, keeping her mouth shut is as much in her best interest as anyone else’s.

Showing Gold into a side-room, Regina throws a glance back at Zelena. “Please try to keep him from eavesdropping.”

“Easier said than done,” Zelena says, eyeing Henry with a weak chuckle. “Do I have permission to tie him to a chair if he gives me trouble?”

“ _No_.” Regina rolls her eyes, but the tension doesn’t leave her face. “You have permission to call me.”

She’s gone, then, sweeping out of the room in pursuit of Gold, leaving Zelena with a dozen unused ripostes and the taste of blood in her mouth.

She tries not to think about the last time she saw those two together, the Evil Queen draping herself all over their former mentor in the back of his shop. There are no shortage of moments in Zelena’s life when jealousy got the better of her, but that was the first time she was jealous of Gold for being the one _Regina_ chose. How unfair, she thought at the time, that changing for the better just meant more of the same bitter-tasting stuff.

It’s easier than she expects, keeping Henry distracted. Regina hasn’t left them alone together since last night, since her failed attempt at a quiet family dinner, and it’s hard to tell which one of them is feeling more awkward now that they finally have a moment to talk it through.

Zelena isn’t usually the type to accept the blame when someone else is willing to take it for her, but Henry is just a boy and she knows he didn’t mean to upset her. His heart is in the right place, so much so that he would actually try and make peace with the woman who once threatened to kill him. It’s a whole lot more than she’ll ever deserve, and she is deeply touched.

“I’m sorry,” he’s saying, making her own shame burn hotter. “About last night, I mean. You know.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she says. She’s aiming for light and airy, but it’s not exactly convincing. “You’re not the one who stormed out like a spoiled little…”

She coughs, feeling the comparison all the more keenly for having made it herself. Henry nods, though, quiet and thoughtful, and the look on his face says he still hasn’t given up on getting her into his corner, on finding a kindred spirit in the only other person to be housebound and treated like they’re helpless.

Zelena could tell him that he’s wasting his optimism if he thinks she’s that brave. He wants a front-row ticket to the final battle while she would be perfectly content to take shelter behind Regina’s wards and spells for the rest of her life. Courage has never been her strong point, for all her blustery insistences to the contrary, and now that she’s lost the one thing that made her powerful, it’s a thousand times worse.

Not that she has any intention of saying that to Henry, of course. If she can’t even admit in the privacy of her own head that she’s scared of Rumpelstiltskin, there’s no chance she’ll admit to a bloody teenager that she’s scared of leaving the house.

He’s watching her now with poorly-concealed curiosity, like she’s some kind of specimen, a rat in a trap or an ant in a farm. She doesn’t mind too much this time; at least she’s keeping him from eavesdropping on Regina and Gold and whatever their business is about. The last thing any of them needs is another tantrum on that particular subject.

After a long, uncomfortable silence, he cocks his head at her and says, “Is it hard?”

“Is _what_ hard?”

She knows, of course, but she wants to hear him say it, wants to hear someone stand up and name the thing that’s happened to her. She half-expects him to blush and back down, to cough and splutter and apologise like Belle or the Charmings would. He has the same penchant for kindness and compassion, and no doubt Regina has schooled him thoroughly on the need to walk on eggshells around his crippled, pathetic aunt.

To his credit, or perhaps the opposite, he doesn’t. “Being without magic,” he says, as straight and keen as an arrow. “Like, does it hurt?”

Zelena chuckles. It’s an odd feeling, admiring his forwardness while at the same time feeling the words twist like a knife in her gut. She thinks about lying, to protect him and protect herself; if it feels so terrible just to hear, she doesn’t want to think about how it will feel to say it herself. She doesn’t want to deal with this, doesn’t want to spread her suffering all over this house, this sanctuary that Regina has so generously offered her. She already feels useless, like some kind of twisted beacon radiating pain and self-pity, and the last thing she wants is to throw it all over Henry as well. She’s caused enough misery over the course of her time here, and for all his curiosity Henry is still so very young. Surely she should spare him any more, if she can.

She hesitates just a second or two too long, though, and then his expression shifts and she can see it in his eyes, can read the comprehension like a spark lighting up his face, and she knows in a flash that it’s pointless to deny it. He _knows_ , he can _see_ , and there’s no point in pretending.

He’ll cut through the lies as easily as Regina, as easily as Emma with her so-called super-power. God help her, he’s the very best and the very worst of both his mothers, and what’s a girl supposed to do against that? From her experience, the only defence that’s ever worked against either one of them is the truth.

So, regretting it before she even starts, that’s what she gives him.

“Yes.” Her voice only wavers a little. She prays that it will stay strong, even if the rest of her can’t. “Yes, I’m afraid it hurts very much.”

Henry nods. “Mom said to be gentle,” he says, “like you’re made of glass or something.”

“How thoughtful.”

But he’s not saying it to be thoughtful. He’s still looking at her, scrutinising every line on her face like he wants to commit her suffering to memory and scribble it down in his bloody story-book.

“Is that what it feels like?” he presses. “Like being made of glass? All broken up and sharp and stuff?”

“It would be rather fitting if it was,” Zelena says with a wry, hoarse chuckle. “Heaven knows, I deserve far worse.” She sighs. “But no. It’s not really like that at all.”

How strange, she thinks, that talking about this with a child, a _brat_ is so much easier than discussing it with Regina. Her sister, who understands at least some part of it, who has lived without her powers, who has seen first-hand what losing magic does to people. Her sister, who at the very least can try to picture it, to imagine cutting out her inner limb, the wordless little life always breathing inside her chest.

As far as Zelena knows, Henry doesn’t know the first thing about magic; at the very least, she’s almost sure he’s never felt it for himself. It should be completely alien to him, strange like a foreign tongue. Yet here he is, staring at her like a student, like she’s the teacher, like he just wants to learn from her. Heaven help her, it’s like he thinks she has something worth saying, like he thinks her pain, her experience, her _life_ is worth hearing about.

He’s wrong, of course, but that doesn’t seem to deter him.

“So what _is_ it like?” he presses, and the look on his face, so pure and open and _childish_ , lances straight through to her heart, to the place empty of magic, the place that feels so hollow and torn.

“Like losing a limb,” she says automatically, then shakes her head. “No, not exactly like that either. More like losing your tongue or your eyes. Like…”

She trails off, thinking, trying to piece together a better comparison, something that might make sense to a boy so young, someone who has seen so much but lived so little, who hasn’t been in the world long enough to know what it’s like to depend on something so completely then have to rip it out for the greater good. _Like losing a piece of your soul, like draining the blood from your veins._

Henry studies her while she thinks, the frowning contemplation of someone who sees the world more deeply than he should. He knows pain, Zelena realises. Maybe not as much as her or Regina or the rest of them, but enough to recognise it in someone else, enough to find the place where they’re bruised or battered and think _there, that’s it_. Enough to almost understand.

“Like not being the Author any more?” he says, and Zelena is staggered by how raw he sounds, how deeply he seems to feel it. “I mean, like, I could still hold a pen, but it wouldn’t…”

“Yes.” Her breath catches, tugging her heart along with it. “Yes, I suppose so. Like losing the part of you that makes words, or whatever you writers do.”

“Well, it’s kind of more complicated than that,” he says, but he’s beaming a little, proud of himself for articulating something that she, the so-called adult, could not. “But I get it, I think. Like, it’s part of your body, only not really. And you can’t… you can’t explain it because you know it wouldn’t make any sense to anyone who doesn’t have it, but just the thought of being without it…” He pauses, trembling ever so slightly. “It’s not just _yours_ , you know? It’s _you_.”

“Yes,” Zelena breathes. “Yes, it was.”

“I get it,” he says again, softer this time. “I get the way it hurts.”

It’s true. With just a single look at his face, she can see that he knows. He’s the first one who does, the first one to truly understand what a severance this is.

Not even Regina ‘gets it’ quite like this, and Zelena really thought she was the only one who would ever come close. She knows what it is to be powerless, to be suppressed or stifled or shackled, but this isn’t like that and she can’t truly know the difference until she’s lived through both.

Zelena is glad that she doesn’t, that she can’t; she hopes that her sister will be spared that pain for the rest of her life. But it stings, a barb lodged in bone, the frustration of trying to capture the myriad shades of suffering and struggling, of trying to explain the difference between being muzzled and being mutilated.

Henry sees it, though. In one swift metaphor, he understands what his mother can’t.

What a terrible burden for someone so young.

*

Regina and Gold re-emerge not long after that.

Gold looks maddeningly self-satisfied, like always, but Regina has a tight, worried look on her face. Zelena doesn’t need to hear the words to know that she’s been roped into something she’d rather not do, and she hates herself just a little bit more because she knows she’s part of the reason why. Between her and Henry, the two of them as pathetic and defenceless as each other, Regina must be feeling the weight of worry more heavily than ever. If either one of them could just protect the other…

But they can’t, and wishing won’t make things any easier for Regina, for any of them, so what’s the bloody point?

“Will you two be all right here by yourselves for a couple of hours?” she’s saying, confirming the necessity and her unwillingness in one too-guarded question.

“Hard to say,” Zelena says, playing up the sarcasm because it’s the only armour she has, the only thing with any chance of hiding her cowardice from Gold. “That whole ‘running with scissors’ malarkey is starting to sound like fun.”

Regina glares. Henry splutters, choking on poorly-concealed laughter. Zelena attempts a smirk, feeling oddly proud of herself, then she chokes too at the dark look on Gold’s face.

“Hilarious,” he deadpans.

“Thank you.” Her voice shakes, but she ignores it, holds herself together by sheer force of will. “I thought so.”

Gold huffs, without a hint of politeness. Then, as quick as the snake he is, he’s standing right in front of her, leaving barely a hair’s breadth between them. He doesn’t touch her, doesn’t dare to with Regina and Henry watching, but the danger is readily apparent to all four of them.

_How much faith do you have in that little New York deal, dearie, now that you’re toothless and de-clawed?_

He doesn’t say it, but the fire behind his eyes speaks volumes. Zelena has no intention of finding out whether or not she still holds power over his weak little heart, but he seems sorely tempted to try his own luck with or without an invitation. He’s just close enough that he could tear her throat out if the whim took him, with magic or with his bare hands, and Zelena has a sneaking suspicion it’s only his grandson’s presence that stills him.

“While I’ve got you…” he starts. It’s not a threat, but it could become one with a flick of the wrist if she pushes him. “My _wife_ and I would appreciate it if you stopped burdening us with the products of your _bad decisions_.”

There’s mockery behind the words, _wife_ to mean _property_ , to mean _his_ , and _bad decisions_ to mean Robin, to mean her beautiful daughter, to mean the only good thing that ever came out of her. He knows exactly what he’s doing, striking as he always does with perfect precision, lashing out all the places where her heart lies softest, all the little things that ever left her touched and changed and moved. Robin, her beautiful little girl, her everything, and Belle, the only one who ever came to her willingly, the only one who ever trusted her, who ever…

He wants her to feel the words, to know that she can’t challenge them without risking her life or worse. He wants to make her feel impotent, make her feel the absence of her magic so potently that she cries. But it won’t work. Zelena has lived with loss her whole life, aching and wanting and starving for things she didn’t have or never would; it’ll take more than a glare from the Dark One to break her.

Refusing to let him see how frightened she is, refusing to let him see anything but the version of her that leashed and caged him, she straightens her spine and looks him right in his beady little eyes.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to judge my decisions,” she says, and who cares that she sounds like a cornered animal? At least she got the words out. Her mouth is as dry as a desert, so she wets her lips, lets the flick of her tongue come off as just a little bit suggestive. “And you’re definitely in no position to know what your wife _appreciates_.”

As quick as lightning, Gold’s hand cuts through the air between them, catching her by the throat almost before she’s finished speaking.

He’s not using magic this time, only his fingers, tight and skeletal, a noose to squeeze the life right out of her. Zelena chokes, struggling to read his face as he tightens his grip, trying to figure out whether he’s feeling the pain himself as well, whether his life really is still tied to hers. His expression is blank, though, unreadable; his eyes are blazing with a thousand different things, and the only thing she knows with any certainty is that it doesn’t matter: if his life is the price for finally ending hers, he will gladly pay it.

Blessedly for them both, it doesn’t come to that. With a flash and a burst of smoke, Regina appears in the non-existent space between them, wrenching them apart like two disobedient children. “ _Enough_.”

“I quite agree.” Gold sounds breathless; his face is pinched and haggard. Zelena wishes she could figure out whether it’s the product of pain or just exertion. “Now then, if we’re done fraternising with the rabble, there’s a job to do.”

Zelena doesn’t trust herself to speak. The only reason she’s still on her feet at all is that she doesn’t want Gold to see her fall. Knowing her luck, she’d break her own bloody neck and gasp her last breath to the sound of his cackling. She can feel her pulse hammering against her throat, can feel his phantom fingers tighten around it, the pain subsuming even the fear. For just a moment, she almost hoped he would succeed. If he killed her now, at least she wouldn’t have to live out the rest of her life in this never-ending nightmare of helplessness.

Regina gives her a hard look, then steps away to glare at Gold. “Next time,” she snaps, “wait until I call you back.”

“Believe me, dearie,” he mutters. “Given the choice, I wouldn’t be calling on you at all. But needs must, and time is of the essence.” His eyes flash, another wordless threat. “As you well know.”

Apparently she does, because she sighs and surrenders. “Behave,” she tells Zelena, and then says the same to Henry.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out, in light of what just happened, who she’s more concerned about, but it’s Henry who takes up the gauntlet, who nods and grins and says, “Relax, Mom, we’ll be fine,” who comes to Zelena’s rescue like he’s not just a teenage boy, like she wasn’t one of the most powerful people in the world just two days ago. _I got this,_ he doesn’t say, and Zelena wants to cry because now she has a child fighting her battles for her.

“Call me,” Regina says, “if you need anything at all.”

She’s talking to Henry, only to Henry, and Zelena is so shaken, so wobbly, she can’t bring herself to care. Worse, she finds that she’s almost grateful. She doesn’t want Regina to see how pale she is, how violently she’s shaking, doesn’t want her sister to know how much like death Rumple’s fingers felt, and how, for a few terrible moments, she wished they were just a little bit closer.

 _Go,_ she thinks. _Go with him, do whatever it is he needs you to do. Get the hell out of here so I can break down in peace._

Without even looking at her, Regina does just that.

*

Sadly, Zelena does not break down.

She expects to, maybe even wants to in a self-indulgent, masochistic sort of way, but apparently that part of her is as broken as all the others because no matter how hard she tries nothing happens.

She sits on Regina’s bed, clutching her knees to her chest, touching her pulse point with her fingertips, finding and tracing the little white prints where Gold’s claws dug in, and waits, waits, _waits_ for the reaction to hit, for the horror to subside and the emotion to rise up, for the pain and the panic and the tears.

They don’t come, though. Not the emotion and not the tears. No matter how long she sits there, no matter how hard she forces herself to think about it, to remember, to re-live it again and again and again, still nothing happens inside of her. Her body is spent, too drained of its strength to even fall apart.

This is who she is now, she realises bitterly. A sad, worthless wreck of a body, a creature so ruined it can’t even cry. This is it, this is her. There’s no going back, no undoing what she’s done, no time-travel spells or laws to unwrite. She will spend the rest of her life just like this, waiting for death and wondering which her countless enemies will be the one to bring it. Regina won’t be here forever. Henry or no Henry, she can’t live out the rest of her days setting up protection spells every time she leaves the house. It’s just impractical.

Sooner or later, Zelena knows, she will have to learn how to stand up and walk on her own. Regina can’t put her own life on hold forever, and even if she could she shouldn’t have to. And good grief, how far has she come that she actually _cares_ what Regina can or should do, that she would sooner resign herself to a lifetime of torment than force another moment’s worth on her sister? She will not be a burden any longer than she has to.

She has to learn to not be scared. She has to learn how to make her body work again, has to learn how to move and breathe and defend herself. She has to find herself a weapon, a shield, a piece of armour. Something, _anything_ , to give her a fighting chance.

Until then, this is all she has. This _nothing_ , this emptiness, the fear and the horror, the certainty that any moment might be her last and the sickening, sordid realisation that she wouldn’t particularly care if it was.

She stays there like that for some time. Maybe an hour, maybe two; she counts out the time by her heartbeats, but her pulse is so erratic, so crazed that she can’t really measure it with any kind of accuracy. All she knows is that the feeling inside of her doesn’t get any smaller. The longer she sits, the harder she presses against her neck, the more violently her pulse beats, the more vivid the memories grow of Gold’s fingers, the look on his face, the moment she saw that he would gladly die if it meant finally killing her as well.

It’s only when she stops feeling scared and starts feeling regretful — _if only he’d finished the job, I wouldn’t have to sit here feeling like this, I wouldn’t be drowning, I wouldn’t be too weak to bloody cry_ — that she knows she has to do something, has to distract herself before she falls into a bottomless pit with no way out.

So, naturally, she ends up shuffling her feet outside Henry’s room.

She has to knock three times on the door before he acknowledges her at all, and even then it’s with little more than a grunt and a vague “C’mon in”. So, then, it’s not exactly a big surprise when she flings open the door to find him gawking like a brain-dead zombie at the television screen.

“I should have known,” she says, trying desperately to sound normal, to sound human. “Your mother warned me about those games of yours.”

Henry snorts, but doesn’t look away from the screen. “Mom worries too much.”

“Yes, I can certainly see that.” She closes her eyes, dizzied by the flashing lights and noises bursting out of the odd little box, then has to take a deep breath before she can speak again. “Clearly an exaggeration on my dear sister’s part.”

“Glad someone agrees.” He stops the action as if by magic by simply tapping a button, then turns to look at her her. “You okay?”

“Of course.” It comes out like a squeak, but if he notices he’s polite enough not to call her bluff. “Magic or no magic, it’ll take more than a threat from that imp to keep me down.”

Henry studies her for a second or two, his expression giving away his doubt. He doesn’t voice it, but he lacks the self-control to keep it from slipping through just the same. With any luck he’ll grow out of that blasted openness in a few years; with any luck, she’ll stay alive and out of trouble long enough to see it. She holds on tight to the thought, reminds herself that this alone is a reason to live, a reason to keep wanting to. _Magic or no magic,_ she reminds herself again, and tries very hard to believe that there is more to life than fear and pain.

At long last, Henry says, “You know she’s his happy ending, right?”

Zelena feels her whole body seize. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

It’s a fairly obvious hint, or so she thinks. _We’re not talking about this, I’m not talking about this, you’re definitely not allowed to talk about this._ But for all the ways he can read her, all the ways he sees her like no-one else really does, apparently he’s still an oblivious, stupid teenager in this one.

“Belle,” he says, like he’s just reeling off a name, not taking a bloody chainsaw to her chest. “She’s his happy ending. And he’s hers too. You know that, right?”

 _Rub my face in it, why don’t you,_ she thinks. Aloud, because he’s too young to hear what she really feels, she says, “Well, there’s no accounting for taste, is there?”

He smiles. Zelena is sure she’s never seen a more serious smile in all her life.

“It’s okay,” he says, and good grief, he really is the truest believer if he believes that nonsense. “I think my mom is yours.”

Zelena chokes on a wet, broken laugh. “My sister is my happy ending? Bloody hell, how pathetic am I?”

“Not very,” he says, and of course he believes that too.

Zelena snorts and doesn’t dignify that with a response. She definitely, definitely doesn’t tell him that maybe it’s not such a terrible thought after all. If the last two days’ worth of torment and misery have taught her anything it’s that having Regina by her side is a kind of strength and hope and love she could never have imagined, much less believed that she deserved. Zelena is at her weakest right now, her most worthless and pathetic, and still somehow Regina looks at her like she’s been born again, like losing the most important part of herself somehow made her whole, made _them_ whole.

She’s not sure if this, if anything, will be enough to drown the emptiness, the hollow, horrid feeling inside of her. She’s not sure if she’ll ever get rid of the nausea, the gnawing grinding in her gut every time she moves or thinks or tries to eat. She’s not sure what waits for her on the other side of this long, exhausting recovery process, or if there’s enough of herself left to see it through at all. But maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe Henry’s right: so long as she has Regina by her side, so long as Regina wants to be there, she won’t have to go through it alone. Not this, not anything. Never, ever again.

 _“You might feel like a child,”_ Regina told her last night, _“but you’re not that child.”_

Maybe that’s as much of a miracle as she can hope for.

She finds a smile, a real one, and points a finger at Henry’s game, the still figures flickering on the screen. “What is that, anyway?”

Henry’s face lights up like it’s his birthday. No doubt his mothers don’t have much patience for this virtual rubbish; Zelena wouldn’t care either, honestly, only the alternative is going back to Regina’s room and thinking about things she really doesn’t want to think about. So, instead, she’ll focus on this, the flashing, shimmering characters, the strange pixelated faces that may or may not be human.

He explains, or tries to, but she doesn’t understand a word he says. Nonsense about swords and dragons, about saving the world from some great cataclysmic evil — _please_ , like they don’t do that three times a week in this town — and making choices to decide the outcome of the game. It’s all rather confusing, and more than a little boring, and frankly Zelena has no idea what compels her to keep listening.

She has no idea, either, what compels her to blurt out, “Can I have a go?”

Henry frowns for about half a second, then shrugs and breaks into a grin.

“Sure,” he says. “What do you want to be?” 

Zelena blinks. “Eh?”

He rolls his eyes, biting down on laughter, like she just asked him what colour the sky is, like it’s the most idiotic question in the whole bloody world.

“Like, you can be a warrior with a sword and shield, or you can be an archer with a bow and arrows, or…”

Zelena’s heart stutters at the possibilities. Her pulse quickens. For just a moment, she almost remembers how it feels to have hope.

“Can I…” She swallows thickly, not just once but three or four times. “Can I have magic?”

It’s not the same. She knows that, she’s not an idiot. But _oh_ , the thought of pretending, even for just a little while, of pressing a button and watching the fireballs flicker and flare to life, of letting her imagination loose and maybe letting herself _believe_ … oh, she would give anything in the world for such a gift.

Henry’s eyes grow soft, almost reverent. Just like before, he sees and he knows, and when he hands over the controller the smile on his face lights up the whole room.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you can have magic.”

*


	6. Chapter 6

*

Gold’s little mission is a wild goose chase.

More accurately, it’s a wild dragon chase. He’s got the notion into his head that he can wake the Blue Fairy with dragon’s breath and, true to form, he’s refusing to let little things like impracticality and the present lack of dragons in Storybrooke stand in his way. There’s not much to admire in the wily old lizard, but even Regina can’t deny that his doggedness could bring down an entire realm. And, in fact, has.

Naturally, he’s roped her into this because “Well, you do have more _intimate_ experience with dragons than most.”

Under normal circumstances, Regina would happily tell him that her ‘intimacies’ are none of his business, but that would involve rising to his particularly acerbic bait and she frankly has better things to do with her time. In any case, he’s right about time being of the essence: the Blue Fairy isn’t getting any healthier lying prone in the back of his shop, and they do need answers. Whatever Regina may think about his hare-brained scheme, it’s still better than sitting around waiting for ideas to fall out of the sky like the Charmings seem to be doing. At least this is action. Pointless, windmill-tilting action, yes, but action just the same.

She doesn’t appreciate the insinuations, however, in the way he simply assumes that she has something of Maleficent’s lying around in her vault. (The fact that she does, of course, is neither here nor there; it’s not his place to think about such things, and certainly not to the extent that he clearly has.)

“I don’t care about her dalliances,” he says, with a pointed look at Regina’s décolletage. “I just need to know if any of them resulted in something we could use.”

Regina keeps her opinion on that particular issue to herself. It’s been years since she had any right to Maleficent’s privacy, any right to ask about her comings and goings, and even if she were privy to draconic mating habits she certainly wouldn’t share them with Gold. In any case, he has his own methods for uncovering secrets; if he could have done this on his own he would have, and she would have been none the wiser. That he’s come to her at all is proof enough that he is out of his depth here.

Still, for all her doubts, she does what she’s asked, helping him to prepare a locator spell and then adapting it to widen the net: _“A dragon is a dragon,”_ Gold insists, respectful in his own twisted way of her boundaries. _“Don’t much care if it’s her or someone else.”_ Regina appreciates that; she’ll play her part in this pointless little game, whether she thinks it has merit or not, just as long as he doesn’t expect her to steal from old friends.

He doesn’t, of course, and nor does he ask her for more than the bare minimum. Once the spell is ready, he’s perfectly content to snatch it up and continue this little adventure all on his own. Regina appreciates that too; she’d be delighted to be rid of him, in fact, only there’s still the matter of his little outburst back at the mansion, and… _well_. A favour for a favour, she decides, and drops a hand onto his arm before he can poof away.

“Not so fast.”

He sighs, but stays. “Is there a problem?” The question says he has no idea what this is about, but the quirk of his lips tells a very different story. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that we’re on the clock.”

“And I’m sure I don’t need to remind _you_ ,” she says, “that violence in front of Henry is not permitted in my house.”

“I am aware.” He doesn’t seem particularly concerned by the warning, though. “I assume you missed the part where your vindictive witch of a sister goaded, antagonised, and tried to emasculate me?”

“Oh, I’d have to be blind to have missed that. But it’s not the point, and you know it.” She grips his arm a little tighter, surprised by how bony it seems all of a sudden, strangely close to fragile; his mother’s presence is wearing on him, she notes, perhaps more than any of them realise. “Look. I don’t care what unresolved issues you have with my sister. I don’t care if you feel threatened by her friendship with Belle, or ‘emasculated’, or anything else. Hell, I don’t care if you caught the two of them in bed together. I don’t _care_.”

Gold thins his lips. “Shockingly, dearie, I find that I do.”

“Well, that’s your problem,” Regina snaps, perhaps a little unfairly. “Zelena is a shadow of herself, thanks to your loving mother. She is weak and she is helpless, and she…” Her breath catches, shards of lancing her chest. Apparently this isn’t really about violence in front of Henry at all; who knew? “She is under my protection. And if you ever lay a hand on her like that again, I will personally make sure it’s the last thing you ever do. Am I making myself clear?”

His eyes ignite, then darken, and the air around them gets very, very cold.

“Perfectly,” he says. The word is a curse. “Your _Majesty_.”

And with that, he’s gone.

*

She stops by Granny’s on her way home, and buys a box of cupcakes.

 _Cupcakes_ , for the love of god. And for what? Does she really think store-bought confectionary will fix everything? Does she really think it will heal Henry of his desperation to join the final battle? Does she really think it will convince Zelena to eat? What a sickening, infuriating turn of events, she thinks, that the one-time Evil Queen is so reduced by her own impotence, her own uselessness, that she would resort to buying baked goods from an old woman.

Still, on the grand scale of ridiculously stupid ideas she supposes it beats casting curses and crushing hearts. Not by much, if Granny’s culinary skills are any measure, but nonetheless.

She spies Emma sitting alone in a booth, splitting her attention between a grilled cheese sandwich and what looks like an ice-cream sundae. _The last bastion of maturity_ , Regina thinks sadly.

She slips into a nearby seat, her face a rictus of disgust, and says, “Am I really the only adult left in Storybrooke?”

Emma looks up, grinning widely through a mouthful of… well, frankly, Regina doesn’t want to know what.

“What do you mean ‘left’?” she asks, grinning with her mouth still full. “As far as I can tell, you always were.”

“Touché.” Regina sighs. It’s good-natured, though, comfortable and easy, as their conversations so often are these days. How far they’ve come from death threats and poisoned turnovers. “You’d think, being free from our son for five minutes, you’d be thrilled to get away from this tooth-rotting obscenity.”

Emma huffs. She’s still wearing that stupid smirk, though, like she’s so damn proud of herself. “You’ve ruined him,” she says. “You know, he actually asked for vegetables the other night. He sure as hell didn’t get that from me.”

“Evidently.”

They both grow serious then, mirroring each other seemingly without a thought. It’s astonishing, Regina thinks, how naturally this sort of thing comes to them now, how implicitly and instinctively they’ve come to trust each other. It would be easy to blame that on Henry, on his boundless faith in the two of them to be the mothers he needs, but they both know it’s more than just that. No amount of good will is enough on its own to transform two people as determined to hate each other as she and Emma were for so damn long. No, it’s hard work that got them here, and growth and honesty. In its own way, that’s worth more than all the faith in the world, even from Henry.

Emma pushes away the remains of her meal, like she’s trying to sweep the immaturity off the table. _If only,_ Regina thinks, and has to hide her smile.

“How are they?” Emma asks.

It touches Regina more than she’ll ever admit, the weight behind that _‘they’_. Emma has no reason to ask after Zelena, no reason to care about her at all. Like Regina, she’s evolved past the point of hating her, but that doesn’t mean she has to pretend she’s worried. There’s no blood shared between them, none of the familial links that bind Regina to her troubled sister; heaven knows, there’s no reason for anyone else in this town to give her more than a passing thought. Emma could quite easily make this conversation all about Henry, the thing they have in common, the one bond they both share, and Regina would never have questioned it, perhaps wouldn’t have even noticed at all. That she cares enough to ask, even just for Regina’s sake… yeah, that touches her.

“Difficult,” she admits with a sigh. “Zelena is exhausting. More so than usual, I mean. And Henry…”

“…is _Henry_ ,” Emma offers, flashing that smile of hers, the one that makes everything seem easier. “He’s all keyed up about the final battle.”

“It’s all he wants to talk about,” Regina says. “Won’t listen to a word about anything else.”

Emma’s weary laugh says she’s more than familiar with this particular struggle. “And heaven forbid you tell him he’s not allowed to get involved.”

Regina feels herself relax for what feels like the first time in months. She should have done this sooner, she realises, come to Emma not to talk about Henry but just to _talk_. Snow White is slowly but surely becoming a cherished confidante, a true friend — and, yes, a big part of that crazed nuclear unit she calls a family — but she sees the whole world through some kind of rose-coloured lens, like every problem big or small can be solved by true love or blind faith, like even the deepest cuts can be healed by patience and cock-eyed optimism. And yes, Regina knows that those things are precious, she’s spent six long years learning that lesson, but _honestly_.

Emma is different. She feels everything just as strongly as Regina does, but she thinks as deeply as she feels. She uses her head, the part of her that learned too young how to survive, the part of her that learned the price to be paid for not knowing where the nearest exit is. It’s been a long time coming, this rapport they’ve come to share, and Regina feels the gratitude swell inside of her now, richer and purer than it has been in a very, very long time. _My home away from home,_ she thinks, and marvels at herself.

“He’ll be trouble,” she says aloud. “He’ll insist on sticking around to the bitter end, come what may and damn the consequences. Hell, he’ll probably insist on being on the front lines, right by your side.”

It’s true. Nothing makes Henry prouder than the moments, blessedly few and far between, when he gets to stand up proud and strong between his mothers, when he gets to play the hero too. A child his age thinks he’s untouchable, Regina knows, and he will believe that until reality proves him wrong. It doesn’t matter how many others he’s seen fall, how hungry the world is to punish him; he is the truest believer, and he never believes in anything quite so firmly as the power of good to triumph over evil.

Emma sighs, seemingly just as frustrated as Regina. “Short of tossing him over the town line and throwing up another protection spell,” she mutters, “I don’t think there’s much we can do.”

Regina knows that, but it’s not what she wants to hear. Now more than ever, she just wants to protect him from all of this, the nightmares on their doorstep and the worse ones still to come. And not just him, either; there’s Zelena to think of now as well. Zelena, who just a few short days ago could have levelled half the two if the mood took her, who can no longer sleep through the night without her sister’s arms around her, who jumps out of her skin at the sound of a door slamming, who blanches and shudders at the notion of eating breakfast. Even just the thought of the two of them, alone and defenceless back at the mansion, makes Regina ache for something far more powerful than a protection spell.

“Is this where we are now?” she says to Emma, feeling oddly exposed. “You do the fighting, I do the worrying?”

Emma chuckles. “Better than when we were both doing the fighting,” she says, “and everyone else did the worrying.”

Well, that’s true enough, though it really has no right to be as comforting as it is. Nothing has changed, after all; they’re still racing against time, the Black Fairy could swoop in at any moment with another cruel scheme. Still, though, Regina finds a strange kind of strength in Emma’s words, her tense, sad smile, the gentle, earnest reminder of how far they’ve all come, how much they’ve grown, not just alone but together as well, how different this Storybrooke is from the one the Evil Queen ruled with an iron fist, the one that Emma stumbled into six years ago and made a home.

“Stronger together,” Regina says with a dry, too-hopeful smile. “Is that it?”

“Something like that.” Emma smiles too, wide and bright, and for just a second she’s the spitting image of her mother. “Doesn’t make it easier, but at least the burden’s less heavy when we’re both carrying it. Or that’s the theory, anyway.”

It’s not much. Henry’s certainly not getting any younger; his determination, his courage, the stubbornness he got from the woman who raised him and the heroism he got from the one who birthed him… those things will only grow stronger as he does. It’s not exactly helpful, the reminder that neither one of his mothers can do a damn thing to stop it, but still Regina finds a kind of comfort in seeing her own concerns reflected in Emma’s eyes, in hearing that ridiculous word, _together_. Good grief, she really has become an honorary Charming, hasn’t she?

The thing is, they both have family they would die to protect. Emma has her parents and her baby brother, even the useless pirate, to say nothing of the love she and Regina share for Henry. She loves all of them with the same breathless desperation, protects them with the same ferocity as Regina protects her sister, the same blind stupidity that compelled her to threaten the Dark One in her name, perhaps even the same devotion that compelled him to raise a hand against her in the first place, the woman who would insult his marriage so casually.

There’s no shortage of loved ones in this town, no shortage of people to care about and protect, not for any one of them. Regina might feel helpless now in a way she hasn’t felt in a long, long time, but she has more people in her corner, more friends and family than she’s ever known in her life. She has Emma, out there fighting the big battles while she stays at home with their son and their shared worries. Emma, who knows, who understands exactly why worrying is such a frightening concept for fighters like them.

It’s not really a solution. Togetherness, solidarity, all that Charming-shaped absurdity. It sounds like the kind of over-saturated saccharine nonsense she would hear from Snow, and if she were feeling just the tiniest bit less fragile maybe Regina would make a comment to that effect. _You’re really starting to resemble your mother_ , she could say, and Emma would glare, and for just a second they could both pretend everything was completely normal.

She could, but she doesn’t. Pretending frightens her, leaves her feeling unbalanced, and she has never been the type to run and hide from reality, even at its most brutal. Emma is the same way, she knows, and she feels a strange kind of solidarity in that as well. They both know how ugly the world is, how cruel and unfair it can be, but neither one of them will ever turn away from their fate, no matter how dark a shadow it throws.

So, then, instead of the easy jokes, the quips and ripostes that came so easily a few minutes earlier, before she said Henry’s name and made the fear real, she opts for a different approach; she lets Emma see the worry lines on her face, the product of two restless nights spent holding her sister, of a day and a half spent struggling in vain to deflect Henry’s would-be heroism, of what feels like a goddamn lifetime spent sitting around and waiting for the Black Fairy to make her move, for Rumpelstiltskin to step up and choose a side, for the world to shut up for five seconds and let her breathe.

“It’s hard work, isn’t it?” she says, exposing herself completely. “Loving people.”

Emma’s face is lined too, she notes, but when she laughs the sound is lighter than air.

“Yeah,” she says. “But I wouldn’t trade it in for anything in the world.”

*

They go back to Regina’s mansion together.

It’s too quiet. _Much_ too quiet, and for the few moments after the door slides shut behind them the overwhelming silence is about the only thing Regina can process. She’s not ready for the panic that grips her, the irrational, stupid terror and the explosion of images it brings with it, each one more awful than the last. _I can’t hear them,_ she thinks, _where are they, what happened, oh my god, did that winged harpy get to them?_

A part of her, the only part that’s rational, wonders if this is what Zelena felt yesterday afternoon, when Henry stormed through the door without bothering to knock, when Regina found her in the living room white-faced and trembling, clutching a couch cushion like she really believed it would protect her. She felt guilty about that at the time, but she feels a whole lot worse now, seized by the same sick sense of horror, the irrational but absolute certainty that everyone she loves is dead or dying and there’s nothing she can do about it.

“Henry?” Her voice comes out much too high, the dread too close to the surface. “Henry!”

Emma touches her arm, firm but reassuring, a beat of quiet compassion from someone who understands all too well. “He’s probably just upstairs in his room,” she says. She doesn’t sound high or panicky at all; if she shares any of Regina’s fears she doesn’t let them show. “I can’t count the number of times he never noticed me coming home.”

Regina nods. She’s familiar with this particular habit of his, the teenage oblivion to everything except his own self-important little world. Too many times, she literally had to knock on his forehead just to get him to say _‘welcome home’_.

Still, though, when she tackles the stairs to check the truth for herself she takes them two at a time and doesn’t even pause for breath. She can hear Emma clambering up behind her, trying to match her frenzied pace, and neither one of them wastes more effort on hollow reassurances that they both know are true and both know don’t matter. Regina doesn’t need to ask to know that Emma must have suffered through moments like this herself , moments where no amount of reason or common sense would bring her back from the brink, moments where nothing but her little boy’s face would ever be enough to soothe her.

“Henry!” she shouts again, and then “Zelena!”

She throws open the door to his room, frenzied and half-blind with worry, and what she finds there stops her dead in her tracks.

Emma is right, of course. (Do heroes ever get tired of that, she wonders). Henry is in there, hale and whole and healthy, because of course he is, and Zelena is right there with him. They’re sat together on the edge of the bed, an enormous bowl of popcorn balanced precariously between them, and they’re both utterly entranced by one of Henry’s ridiculous video games.

Zelena has the controller, and judging by the words coming out of Henry’s mouth she’s utterly failing at whatever the hell he’s telling her to do. He’s laughing, though, _laughing_ , light and easy, like he’s never known a moment’s sorrow or pain in all his life. And Zelena, annoying the hell out of him, keeps taking her hands off the giant buttons to shove popcorn into her mouth and _oh god, she’s eating, she’s actually eating_. Without prompting, seemingly without even realising it, Zelena is eating, and Henry is laughing, and the two of them are so comfortable and so _perfect_ , and Regina…

Hell, what else can she do? She stands there, awed and floored and weak at the knees, and watches them with tears streaming down her face.

Emma, only fractionally less moved, simply says, “Huh.”

“Look at them,” Regina whispers. She feels like her heart is about to burst out of her chest. “My god, look at them.”

It’s quiet, but it gets their attention. Henry turns away from the screen, red-faced and bright-eyed, and says, “Moms!”

Zelena, being otherwise engaged, does not turn away from the screen. Her focus is more than a little scary. “About time you got home.”

For a long moment, Regina can’t seem to find her voice. There’s so much she wants to say to both of them, so many feelings all trying to break out of her at the same time, but her throat is clogged by the tears, the pride, the _love_. She feels like she’s suspended, like she’s dreaming, staring at a fantasy of something she thought would never, ever happen.

She dimly hears Emma say “Hey, kid,” to their son, hears her greet Zelena too with a low, quiet “Hi,” notices the way she doesn’t ask how she is, like maybe she’s afraid of breaking her if she speaks too fast or says too much. She barely catches the mumbled responses they throw back, Henry all smiles and Zelena keeping her eyes on the screen where it’s safe. She’s only half-aware of all those things, the polite little back-and-forth that lasts less than a moment, and then she is very, very aware of the way all their attention suddenly turns to her. _Your turn,_ they seem to say, and she has no idea where the hell to begin.

“Uh…” She clears her throat, swallows back the brunt of the emotion, becomes a mother again. “I bought cupcakes.”

It’s about a thousand miles away from what she wants to say, but somehow it goes down better than the alternatives, _‘I’m so proud of you’_ or _‘I love you both so much’_ , the sickening sentimentality that would only make everyone uncomfortable. Given that she’s dealing with a teenage boy and a woman with the heart and stomach of a five-year-old, it’s not particularly surprising that literal sugar is better received than the metaphorical kind.

“Thanks,” Henry says with an awkward, lopsided grin. “But we kinda already had a lot of popcorn.”

“It tastes like cardboard,” Zelena says, and promptly grabs another fistful. “Apparently ‘flavourless’ is all the rage these days.”

“Don’t see you complaining,” Henry says, then turns back to stage-whisper to his mother, “She ate most of it. Like, nearly all of it.”

Regina doesn’t even try to hide her smile. “Did she, now?”

“The boy exaggerates,” Zelena grumbles, and oh, what a transformation a little junk food has made to her. She almost looks like herself again. Her skin is healthier, her eyes almost alive, and Regina finally, _finally_ recognises the sister she’s only just beginning to know. “But it stays down easier than your so-called ‘tea’.”

Emma blinks at that. “So-called tea?”

“It’s not ‘so-called tea’,” Regina sighs. She spreads her arms, mindful of the cupcakes. “It’s just _tea_. For the love of—”

“She makes it with _ginger_ ,” Zelena says to Emma. “And heaven only knows what other rubbish. It’s an abomination.”

“Actually,” Henry says, pointing rather urgently at the screen, “ _that’s_ an abomination. And you better hurry up and kill it before—”

Too late, and Zelena’s staff-waving little avatar dies in a rather obscene mess of blood and body parts.

Zelena stares for about half a second, slack-jawed like someone just reached in and ripped her heart out, and then she wails a _“No!”_ that makes the ceiling shake. It’s an awful sound, like most of the noises she makes when she loses control of her emotions, but it’s still a major improvement over the awful things she says in her sleep, the choked-off cries and the sobs she thinks Regina didn’t hear, the gasps when she wakes from her nightmares and the whimpers when she falls, kicking and struggling, into new ones. Anything is better than that, even the death-rattle of a virtual person.

Emma, who clearly has experience with this sort of thing, says, “It’s okay, you get used to it.”

Zelena takes a deep breath, recovers herself, then sets the controller down on the bed with a heavy, mournful sigh.

“It was fun while it lasted,” she mumbles, but the grief in her voice is all too real. Regina has a feeling this is about more than some silly character in a video game.

Henry pats her hand, lets the contact linger for a moment or two more than it needs to. Regina feels a burst of fresh pride swell up in her, something different and unexpectedly potent.

“You’ll do better next time,” he says, and it’s not just comfort, it’s a promise too.

He leans in to turn off the television, and the silence that follows is almost impossible loud. All of a sudden, Regina is acutely aware of her own heartbeat, of the discomfort spreading across Zelena’s face, the pallour chasing away the healthy glow of a moment ago.

It’s beyond devastating, the way all the light vanishes from the room the moment the screen goes black, the ease and the simplicity bleeding out until there’s nothing left but the silence, but the hammering of Regina’s pulse in her chest and her neck, the echo of it vibrating all through her body.

She’s not ready to say goodbye to the beautiful moment, not ready to let go of the hope that things might be fixable after all, that maybe there is still a flicker of that smiling little boy still left in Henry, that maybe Zelena will wake up one morning and not feel crippled and broken and wrong, that maybe Regina’s tattered little family might still be able to pull itself back together after all.

A moment is just a moment, a fracture in time. Regina knows that, of course, but she would give anything to go back just a few short seconds and make that one last forever.

Emma clears her throat, touches Henry’s shoulder with a mother’s tenderness, looks at Regina with a friend’s understanding.

“Hey, kid,” she says, low and steady, “how about you and me go and put those cupcakes somewhere safe, huh?”

Henry’s not stupid. He reads between the lines, and where Regina might otherwise expect a sulky argument, this time he just swings to his feet and mumbles, “Yeah, good idea.”

Regina doesn’t say anything, just mouths a silent _‘thank you’_ as they scramble out through the door. It’s not the ending she would have liked to close out an otherwise perfect scene, but she’s never walked away from a challenge before and she won’t start now. Not when her sister is looking at her like it’s not just the game that lost its light, like Henry somehow pulled the power out of her as well.

“Zelena,” Regina says, and it’s heavy, weighted and weary the way her name so often feels, even after all this time. “It’s just a stupid video game. It’s not—”

“I know that!” The outburst has no teeth, though, and none of her usual bite. “Bloody hell, don’t you think I know that?”

She’s breathing shallowly, visibly uncomfortable and just a little bit green. Regina can’t quite tell whether it’s the effect of too much popcorn on a too-empty stomach or too much emotion on a heart already gorged too full, but she supposes it doesn’t really matter either way. As always, no matter the source, the sight of her looking so damn miserable makes Regina ache right down to her bones.

“Come on,” she says, as softly as she can while trying too hard to smile. “Let’s get you a nice hot cup of abomination.”

*

So here they are again, Zelena sitting numbly at the kitchen table while Regina sets to work brewing a drink neither one of them wants.

Emma and Henry are in the living room. She can hear them talking quietly, catches glimpses through the doorway as they flit and shuffle about; their presence grounds her, helps her to focus on the task at hand. She wonders if they’re staying close on purpose, if it was Emma’s idea or Henry’s to do that, and marvels at how effective it is, the cling and clatter of people in her home, the sense of having a family here again.

Zelena doesn’t notice any of that, of course. She stares down at the table, lost in her own misery, and says, “I just wanted to pretend for a while.”

Regina doesn’t respond to that. She lets it sit there, lets it weight the air, hang suspended like a stray thought, gives it time to grow. She keeps her attention on the task at hand, the boiling water, the little slices of ginger. It doesn’t matter whether Zelena drinks the stuff or not; it’s the routine, the mundanity of arguing about something so pointless, the easy back-and-forth that almost lets them imagine they’ve been sisters, real sisters forever.

“I’ll put some lemon in it this time,” she says. “And honey.”

Zelena makes a face. “Oh god, it just keeps getting worse.”

“My roof, my rules,” Regina says, with perhaps a little more relish than the moment calls for. “And my beverages.”

Zelena rolls her eyes, then gets quiet again for a long time. She doesn’t speak again until after Regina has set the drink down in front of her and sat herself down on the other side of the table. She still looks deeply miserable, but a little of the colour returns to her cheeks when she takes the cup in her hands, and though Regina knows she would never admit to being affected by the ‘so-called tea’ she hates so much, still she holds it close like a kind of lifeline, like it’s the only constant left in her life.

Finally, after what feels like forever, she speaks. Hoarse, low, barely above a whisper, and she never takes her eyes off the tea. Regina wonders if it’s easier this way, laying herself bare when she’s looking at her reflection instead of her sister.

“I know it’s silly,” she says. “Getting upset over a stupid video game like that. I mean, I know it’s just make-believe. Nothing more than a bedtime story, really. _Once upon a time there was a silly little girl who believed in magic…_ ” She tries to chuckle, but it’s raw, like sandpaper rubbing against a wound. “But it was… it was so nice to pretend that magic was mine. Even if it wasn’t really real. I just…”

“I understand,” Regina says. “People find comfort in odd places. There’s a reason those video games are so popular in this land.”

Zelena sighs, takes a sip of her tea, then gags at the taste. “I just felt… I don’t know, if I pretended hard enough, it was almost like I could feel it in me again. Like maybe it really was mine after all.”

“I’m sure Henry will be happy to let you play whenever you like,” Regina says with a warm, tender smile. “Just don’t accidentally overwrite one of his precious save slots.” She rolls her eyes. “Took half my supply of reagents to undo that mistake.”

Zelena doesn’t even try to laugh this time. She looks sad and sick and very small, the same way she looked right after she drained her magic, when the strength bled out of her as well; she could barely even hold herself upright without help, Regina recalls, but she would sooner lean on the table than on her sister or the Saviour.

Regina remembers how exhausted she looked, the blank look in her eyes, the way she could barely even bring herself to speak at first. She remembers how her own heart swelled to look at her, pride and love rising up for the first time at the sight of the woman she once hated so much, remembers feeling awed, remembers that little voice inside her head, the Evil Queen still sharpening her fangs even after so long, telling her that she would never have found the courage to do what her childish, arrogant sister did.

Well, maybe she wouldn’t. But what does it matter? She’s not the one who had to.

Zelena is staring up at her now, eyes wide and wet and desperately lost. Regina knows that she would never deign to ask for help from anyone, but _oh_ , the look on her face makes Regina want to offer it anyway, makes her want to give her the whole damn world and everything in it.

“Do you think it’ll always feel like this?” Zelena asks, tremulous in a way that makes it clear she doesn’t really want to hear the answer.

“I don’t know,” Regina says. She won’t lie, even if she knows it will hurt them both. “But you’ve found a way to cope now, if it does.”

“Video games?” She manages a shaky sort-of half-laugh. It’s not enough, but it’s something. “Make-believe characters in an enchanted box? Pretending fake magic is real and mine?”

It doesn’t sound particularly healthy put that way, but Regina knows that it doesn’t have to be. It just has to be enough for one more day, and one more, and one more.

“I’m not suggesting you hook yourself up to a virtual reality IV drip,” she says wryly. Zelena blinks, clearly not understanding a word of that. Rather than try to explain it, Regina just moves on. “But for the really bad days, yes. The days when it hurts too much, when you feel like you can’t go on, when you don’t…” Her voice catches, surprising them both. “When you don’t _want_ to.”

Zelena swallows hard, stares down at her hands like they’re little lifelines.

“I don’t think I feel like that any more,” she says, almost too soft to be heard.

It’s more of a confession than Regina anticipated, that _‘any more’_ , perhaps more of one than she was prepared for. She doesn’t expect the punch to her gut, the air blasting out of her lungs, the world splitting apart like an earthquake under her feet. When did she come to care this much, she wonders, about a woman who has caused her nothing but trouble from the moment she arrived, who still causes nothing but trouble even when she’s earnestly trying to do good? When did this woman, _her sister_ , become as precious and cherished as her son?

“Zelena,” she whispers, and it means so much, just saying it like that, just using the same voice, opening up the same place in her heart.

Zelena takes a deep breath, drains about half the cup of tea in one great big swallow, then grimaces and looks Regina in the eye. It’s hard to see through the tears blurring her own, but Regina is fairly sure there are tears in Zelena’s too, blue drowning the blue. Such a shame, she thinks in a moment of madness, that she wasted so many years on green when there were so many more beautiful colours hidden underneath.

“Is this what it’s like?” Zelena asks. “Being loved?”

Breathless, aching, and just a little broken, Regina leans across the table and pulls her into her arms. It’s terribly uncomfortable, the edges of the table jabbing into her ribs, but she doesn’t care at all. The ceiling could come crashing down, all of Storybrooke could explode, and she still wouldn’t let her go.

“Yes,” she says. “This is exactly what it’s like to be loved.”

*

Later, much later, Emma says, “So, are you planning on moving in?”

The scene is a blissful one, or it was until that loaded, difficult question. They’re in the living room, Emma and Henry sprawled out on the couch like they own the place. He’s dozing lightly with his head in her lap, and she’s smiling, and for once Regina doesn’t care that she’s on the other side of the room. It’s such a rare thing these days that Henry allows these moments of family bonding, of quiet intimacy with his both mothers in the same room at the same time, that she can’t even bring herself to feel sad that it’s Emma and not her who gets the special treatment this time.

In any case, she has her hands full right now with Zelena. She’s settled on the floor next to Regina’s chair, leaning in to rest her head against Regina’s thigh, like she’s afraid of being out of contact, and she’s working her way with some effort through one of the cupcakes. It’s a challenge, rather more than Regina will ever admit, to keep from barking instructions and telling her to keep chocolate off the damn carpet.

 _She’s eating,_ she reminds herself, surprised all over again by the transformation. _For god’s sake, don’t say anything to screw it up._

“I don’t think that’s an option,” Zelena says to Emma. Blessedly, she waits until her mouth isn’t full. “Regina’s so busy here. I’d be a liability at best, a burden at worst.”

“Nonsense,” Regina blurts out. She doesn’t mention that the idea makes her heart stall in her chest. “I’ve told you, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. If that’s permanently…”

She doesn’t finish. She’s not sure she could, even if she did have the words.

“You’re joking,” Zelena says, but there’s not a soul in this room who’s laughing. “You can’t just turn your whole life upside down for—”

“—family?” Regina finishes, cutting off whatever self-directed insult Zelena was about to throw out. “You bet your ass I can.”

Zelena blanches, then sets the half-eaten cupcake aside. Regina bites down on her tongue again, fights hard to keep from wailing _‘not on the goddamn carpet, good grief, how hard is it to use a table?’_. If her sister does move in, even if she stays just a few more days, she’s sure there will be plenty of occasions for that particular conversation, and it won’t come with nearly as much guilt once Zelena is a little further along in the healing process. Patience, she decides, and counts to ten as slowly as she possibly can.

“I don’t know,” Zelena stammers at last. “That’s… well, it’s a big change, don’t you think?”

It is, Regina knows, and not just in the sense of learning to live with the sister who was her mortal enemy for so many long and painful years. It’s a big change for her to not be all alone, to not be isolated out there in that old farmhouse with only herself and her daughter for company. It’s a big change to trust someone else so completely, to lay enough of her fractured, darkened heart into their hands, to let them share her space, her life, her heart.

“It’s a big house,” Regina reminds her, gently but with real significance. “There’s plenty of space.”

What she means, of course, is, _there’s plenty of places for you to hide, plenty of places where you can be alone if you want to be, if you need to be._

She understands all too well how hard a habit it is to break, being alone, how frightening it is to suddenly not have to be. She knows what it feels like, the dread that comes with giving up loneliness and embracing love, the fear of rejection, of heartbreak, of being exposed and laid bare and vulnerable. She knows too, from her own experience, the need for a quiet place all her own, a place to hide, to be alone for a while, to discover the joy of choosing it for herself and knowing that it’s temporary.

She doesn’t say any of that. She lets it whistle and hum through the cracks in the words she does say, simple and easy to swallow. _There’s plenty of space,_ five words with five thousand meanings. And oh, how far have they come in this strange sisterly relationship, that it’s all Zelena needs to hear? Her shoulders slump, not with defeat but with relief, with understanding and gratitude and her own kind of love. The colour rushes back into her face, the comfort with it, and she knows, she understands, she hears. Good grief, Regina thinks, are they actually _communicating_?

“I…” Zelena’s breath hitches in her chest, but then she nods. “I’ll think about it.”

Regina nods too, touched in a way she can’t quite describe. “Take as long as you need.”

She’s sure she can see the decision hovering over Zelena’s head, a weight ready to drop or a blanket to warm her; it’s hard to tell, sometimes, whether she’ll find comfort or pain in a moment like this. Either way, Regina keeps her distance, gives her time and space and freedom to figure it out on her own.

Emma, meanwhile, is looking at her, at Regina, and if the look on her face is any measure she’s trying very hard not to smile.

“What about Robin?” she says, with feigned innocence that wouldn’t even fool Snow White. “I can’t imagine Belle will be willing to babysit forever.”

Regina snorts, amused. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. You should see her with that baby.”

“She never got the chance with hers,” Zelena says quietly, then turns a richer shade of pink. “But I suppose I should relieve the poor dear soon. Robin can be quite a handful, and I…”

She cuts herself off a little too sharply. Regina feels a warm, proud smile touch her face.

“You’re starting to miss her,” she says.

Zelena purses her lips, but she doesn’t deny it. Regina can see her feelings in the shadows that cast themselves over her face, the flush of her skin, the distance in her eyes, the way she suddenly looks so sweet and so fond. No doubt some piece of that rests on the babysitter as well as the baby, but still. It’s a good sign, a very good sign; it means she’s starting to feel things again.

After a moment, Zelena admits, “I’m still afraid.” Her eyes flutter shut; she struggles to swalllow. “Of hurting her, of not being able to protect her, of… bloody hell, of everything.”

Regina smiles, lit up with love for everyone in the room. “That’s called being a parent.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Emma murmurs, carding her fingers through Henry’s hair.

He’s dead to the world now, blissfully oblivious to the grown-up talk happening around him, and Regina sees her own heart in Emma’s eyes when they meet. She sees so many parts of herself in Emma now, the two of them living and breathing and feeling in perfect sync. _Family_ , she thinks, and it’s nothing like the one she once imagined but all of a sudden it’s the only one she wants.

“It’s tough,” she says, to both of them, to everyone. “Oh, but it’s worth it.”

Emma smiles, soft and sweet and so damn knowing. “So how about it, Madame Mayor?” she teases. “You ready to have a kid around the house again?”

Regina looks at Henry, peaceful and relaxed for what feels like the first time in weeks, and at Zelena, still hurting and struggling but learning, adapting oh so slowly to the loss and the changes inside her body and her soul. They’re so different, her son and her sister, but so much the same in the way her heart stalls when she looks at them, the way her blood burns when she thinks of them. They’re _hers_ , both of them, and what difference does it make that neither one of them really count as a child any more when she still loves and protects them with everything in her?

What’s one more addition, then, to a heart as full as hers?

She locks eyes with Emma, sees all of that reflected, and she knows that she is no more alone with these feelings than Zelena is with her pain, than Henry is with his stubbornness, than anyone will ever be in this ridiculous, stupid, perfect little town.

“You know what?” she says. “I think I am.”

***


End file.
